


To Sow in Tears and Reap in Joy

by fms_fangirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drama, Friendship, M/M, Other, Relationship(s), Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An odd encounter forces William to reconsider his opinion of Grell, but their new relationship is threatened when Grell comes under suspicion for a series of brutal murders in London and when his personal and professional life is shattered only Grell can save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite a long story. It is complete and will be updated every couple of days.

William unlocked his apartment door with a sigh of relief and switched on the light. It had been a long, hard day; nothing seemed to go right. The tally of deaths and souls collected hadn’t matched, requiring endless paperwork and a meeting with Assistant Branch Manager Edwardes, a new graduate had been injured on his very first solo collection, requiring even more paperwork and not one single employee of the Dispatch had submitted his expense report on time.

He took a deep breath and savoured the peace and quiet of his home, the subdued grey and black decor and soft lighting, so restful to his eyes after the harsh glare of the office lights. Here was calm and silence, solitude and repose. Some might call the spare furnishings and muted colour-scheme drab and impersonal, but to him it represented order and tranquillity. He fussily hung up his suit jacket and waistcoat and put his shoes away in the closet before loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar.

His purchased, prepared meal was reheated and eaten while he read Marcus Aurelius’s _Meditations_. The food was a bit bland and tasteless, he admitted, but perfectly adequate. He glanced at the clock—it was a little early, but it had been a difficult day, he told himself and took down a bottle of brandy to pour a generous measure. The liquor burned a slow path down to his belly as he inhaled the aromatic fumes and relaxed for the first time that day.

Allowing his glasses to slip down his nose, he stretched out in his favourite chair and tipped his head back. It was the best moment of his day: to listen to music quietly playing on his expensive sound system—his sole extravagance—and feel the tension leave his body. His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, insistent tapping on his door.

With considerable annoyance, he put his glass aside and rose. Who could possibly be at his door? He couldn’t remember that last time he’d had a visitor. Building maintenance, perhaps? He put his eye to the peephole. But the scarlet figure was definitely not a building employee.

“Grell!” he exclaimed, opening the door. “What are you doing here? And in such a state?”

“Oh William,” she cried, “I’m so sorry to disturb you. I just need a moment to collect myself and I’ll be off.” She hesitated in the doorway.

William sighed. Grell was a nuisance and definitely an unwelcome visitor, but she was a colleague and his subordinate—and she appeared injured. He gestured impatiently for her to enter. “Was there an incident at your last collection? Should you go to the Infirmary?”

Limping past him, she shook her head. “I’d rather not. It had nothing to do with work.”

He pressed his lips together in disapproval and took her torn and dirty coat from her. He could just imagine what she had been up to. “Will I be getting a visit from the Security Officers tomorrow?” The seams of her gloves were ripped; he could see her bruised and bloodied knuckles.

“It happened in the human world.” She stared at the ground. “I was careless. It was such a beautiful evening,” she mumbled. “I just thought I could take a little walk about town.”

“And you took no measures to blend in? Honestly Grell!”

She had stripped off her gloves and was clasping her hands together. “I was stupid, I know.” She still refused to meet his eyes. “But there was no one about, I thought, until they surprised me. I wasn’t paying attention.”

William’s heart began to sink at the thought of the ensuing paperwork. “How many did you kill?”

“None. They were just boys. I didn’t even fight back that hard. Just a few broken bones to remember me by. They’ll think twice about assaulting a lady on the street, in the future,” she said with a semblance of a smile.

“I’m relieved to hear that.” For her sake as much as his own, he admitted. Grell had been surprisingly well behaved for the past several months, but, given her record, discipline would be harsh.

“I’m just a bit bruised and shaken. I misjudged when I opened the portal back and landed on your doorstep, but I’ll be on my way now.”

She had moved about a year ago, he recalled, to a flat very nearby. “Perhaps you should wash your face before you leave.” Her eyes were smeared and one side of her face was scraped and caked with grime.

He watched her move slowly to the bathroom. She couldn’t have put up much of a defence. Grell, even without her Death Scythe, could have torn a group of human youths to pieces. “You were very foolish,” he called out to her. “Let this be a lesson to you.”

“Yes William,” she said quietly on her return. She surveyed the room. “Oh! You did hang it.” Her eyes fell on a charming antique painting of a pigeon. “I’m so glad.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to accept it,” he replied. “I simply wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to take a gift from a subordinate without checking with Management.”

“Really,” she complained. “It was Christmas. Even if you are my supervisor, what possible reason could there be for you not to receive a gift from a colleague? Especially since we’ve been together since the beginning.”

Uncomfortably aware that she had echoed Management’s sentiments, he changed the subject. “I am relieved that you seem to be unharmed. Even if it was the result of your own thoughtlessness,” he said. “And, although you were right to defend yourself, I am pleased that you showed such restraint.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. “I guess I’ll be off now.”

“Will you be all right to get home on your own? Should I accompany you?”

“Why William! How gallant of you!” she answered with a touch of her usual flirtatiousness. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted and left before he could reply.

What an odd encounter, he thought as he locked the door. Had she arrived in hysterics and flung herself, weeping, into his arms, he would have been less surprised. But Grell, quiet and contrite, was beyond his comprehension. She should be remorseful, he told himself sternly—thinking to pass unnoticed in the human world. Grell had never blended in, not even among the Shinigami, not since the day they had begun their training together.

He poured himself another drink. He deserved it, he decided. And, as the liquor caused his inhibitions to slip away, he recalled the fiery, fierce redheaded trainee he had been paired with and an unwilling smile crossed his face. 

XXXXXXXXXX

William woke the following morning with a thundering headache and the feeling that something had died in his mouth. He would have liked to have blamed his state on Grell’s visit, he thought, picking up a single, long red hair from his bathroom floor, but knew the last drink had been a mistake.

By the time he reached the Dispatch, he felt somewhat better. Coffee, a shower and a brisk walk to the office had revived him slightly. He was surprised and pleased to find a neat stack of reports and Grell’s monthly expense account on his desk. He thumbed through it warily, but it contained no outrageous claims. She must have come in very early, before her scheduled collections, to submit all this and he wondered briefly if the previous night’s visit hadn’t provided an unexpected benefit.

Why did the office have to be so noisy? He wiped his face with his handkerchief and swore off brandy forever. Did the secretaries have to chatter so much and type so loudly? Had Ronald Knox’s laugh always been that annoying? He silenced them with a glare and retreated to his own office.

He spent the day grimly ignoring his headache and writing surly comments on the paperwork that trickled in. Rummaging through his desk, he found a bottle of pain relief medication and took his mug to the break room for some water.

Grell was pouring herself a cup of coffee when he entered. She greeted him quietly and returned to her own office. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was embarrassed about the previous night, but that was impossible—Grell had no shame.

He swallowed the tablets and followed her to her office. Under the harsh lights, he could see that her make-up was a shade heavier than usual to hide the scrapes on her cheek and, with a shock, realized that she was wearing her old brown coat. Without thinking, he blurted out, “Where’s your coat?”

“At the cleaners’,” she replied shortly. “Don’t worry. I won’t claim it as an expense since it happened after hours.”

“Honestly Grell!” he snorted. “Regulations allow you to submit a claim for your work clothes. Although your coat is not regulation attire, you wear it while working. I expect to see it on your next report.”

“Thank you.”

What was the matter with her? Perhaps it was the brown coat or bright office light, but she seemed washed-out and weary—a pale reflection of her usual self. “Are you quite recovered from your encounter last night?” he asked. Possibly she had sustained a more serious injury than she realized.

“Quite.”

“Are you certain? Don’t be ashamed to admit it. I know how proud you are of your combat abilities, but–”

“You know nothing about me!” she hissed, planting her hands flat on her desk and leaning forward. “You’ve never cared to know!” Suddenly, she looked like her old self, her cheeks flushed and eyes glittering.

William reared back, blinking in surprise.

She wilted back into her chair. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I had no right to speak to you that way, but please, don’t concern yourself about me. I’m quite all right.”

“Very well,” he managed to reply.

“I’ll have my reports on today’s collections ready for you shortly,” she said. She had withdrawn back to the odd shell of herself she had been earlier.

Nonplussed, he nodded and left her office. What had he done to upset her so? Grell’s emotional state shouldn’t be his concern, but her past history made him worried. Had she merely been taking an innocent walk as she claimed? His head began to ache again at the thought of dealing with another Jack the Ripper spree. Returning to his office, he carefully checked the previous day’s To Die list against all deaths. Everything seemed to be in order; the unscheduled deaths had been nowhere near her collections.

With some annoyance, he realized he’d left his mug in the break room and went to retrieve it. On his return, he found Grell’s reports sitting squarely in the middle of his desk. Had she waited until he was away from his desk to hand them in? Without thinking, he unlocked his drawer, removed a bottle and poured a small measure into his mug. Grell was enough to drive any man to drink.

At last, the day ground to its conclusion. The evening shift reported in and departed for their collections and, by means of threatening demotion to the rest of his underlings, William had finally received all their expense reports. With genuine relief, he left the Dispatch and walked to a shop near his apartment to buy something for dinner. He had just selected a prepared meal, almost identical to that of the night before, when he recognized a familiar figure waiting to pay.

“Oh! Hello,” Grell murmured. “Just picking up a bite for dinner.”

“So am I,” he replied. “Funny we’ve not run into each other before, now that we’re neighbours.” He recalled his dread when he learned that Grell had moved nearby, convinced she would seize on any excuse to drop in. But the previous night had been the first. He couldn’t resist glancing into her basket. Unlike his, with its single dinner, hers was filled with fresh vegetables, fruit, a wrapped package from the fish counter, a small freshly-baked baguette and a half-bottle of white wine.

She followed his eyes. “I like a glass of wine with my dinner sometimes,” she said defensively.

He paid for his purchase and hurried out of the shop. She was walking briskly down the street. Trying to get away from him, he acknowledged and decided that things couldn’t remain between them as they were. His longer legs easily covered the distance between them and he caught her by the arm.

“Grell! A moment please.”

She ostentatiously pulled out her watch and glanced at it, as if reminding him she was not at work. “What?” she answered stonily.

“You—you’ve not been yourself today,” he stammered. “Are you truly all right?” As her scowl deepened, he fumbled for the right words. “If you’re worried about last night, please don’t be. I was surprised,” he admitted, “but not angry. You were right to seek shelter with a co-worker until you felt able to go home.”

Her expression wavered for a moment. “Oh William!” she sighed. “You are such a blockhead. You were very kind to me last night and I’m grateful, but would it kill you, for once, to treat me as a friend?”

He was stunned. Grell had been an annoyance and embarrassment to him for the better part of a century—her disregard for regulations, her mortifying protestations of love and constant misbehaviour—and she was complaining that he wasn’t friendly enough? Especially when he was _trying_? “But I am being friendly,” he protested. “I am sincerely concerned for your welfare.”

“Why?” she asked bluntly. “Why today after years of wishing I’d just go away?”

Why? Because she had shown herself to be vulnerable for the first time in all the years he had known her, he suddenly understood. “Because, last night, you were genuinely shaken. I’ve never seen you like that before. As your Supervisor, it is my responsibility to be sure that you are fit to go into the field and, as your longtime colleague, I was worried about you. Can you tell me what happened to trouble you so?”

She remained silent for a long moment. “Not in the middle of the street,” she finally said. They were drawing more than a few glances from passers-by. Even without her scarlet coat, the notorious Grell Sutcliff was unmistakable. “We’re almost at my flat.” She surveyed her shopping. “I’ve more than enough for two.” She glared at him, daring him to comment on the appropriateness of her invitation.

He nodded and followed her past the shops until she turned onto a residential street. She stopped in front of a narrow white house with a black door and fitted a key into the lock. Climbing the steps to her door, he noted an earthenware pot of scarlet geraniums on the tiny porch. He was greeted by a small entry hall, tiled in black and white. A credenza holding an arrangement of spring flowers sat beneath an old-fashioned mirror with an ornate gold frame.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, gesturing to a room visible through an archway. “There’s drinks on the sideboard. Help yourself.” She disappeared into the back of the house.

If asked what Grell’s flat looked like, William would have sworn it that it would resemble a Turkish harem or Parisian brothel. But it was charming and cosy and feminine. He inhaled deeply the faint scent of potpourri and was transported to a place where he felt loved and secure. He knew the flower boxes outside the bow window would be filled with vibrant gold and orange marigolds and hidden somewhere among the cushions that adorned the deeply-tufted window seat was a box of sweets and a book—a perfect retreat. And, at night, when the heavy silk curtains were drawn, the lamps would be lit to cast golden pools of light over the room.

He crossed the room, which ran the length of the whole house to the dining area. As Grell had said, several bottles stood on a silver tray on the Sheraton sideboard. He poured a finger of whiskey into one of the heavy crystal glasses beside them and sipped it reflectively. Through the French doors, framed by lilac flowers that danced in the slight breeze, he could see a small terrace with a tiny table and two chairs and a garden full of flowers.

Grell appeared. She had discarded her coat, waistcoat and shoes and was enveloped in a long apron. “Oh good. You got a drink.”

He followed her back to the kitchen. “Your house is lovely,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him for the first time that day. “I always thought this was the prettiest street in town. When this place came available, I snapped it up immediately. Of course, I only have the one floor. An old gent from Death Scythes owns the place and lives upstairs. I got to know him a little when I modified mine.”

“It’s not just the house,” he said, loosening his tie a fraction. “It’s what you’ve done with it. It’s–”

“Not at all what you expected,” she said with a slight edge to her voice. She was washing lettuce in the sink; he couldn’t see her face.

“No,” he replied honestly. “It’s not. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house in London. I’m not saying it looks like an old lady’s house,” he hastened to add as she turned abruptly to face him. “It’s the window seat . . . and the flower boxes . . . and the garden. I loved visiting her.”

Water dripped from the leaves she was holding onto the floor. “That’s the only personal thing you’ve ever told me about yourself,” she said quietly.

William sipped his drink nervously and adjusted his glasses. There was so much more he could have said. That Nana Spears’s kitchen had pots of herbs on the windowsill like Grell’s. That there had been a similar scrubbed pine table and a Welsh dresser filled with blue and white china and a biscuit jar that Nana kept filled with all his favourites when he visited the only place on earth he had felt truly happy.

She handed him a bottle of wine. “Perhaps you could take this to the dining room,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them. “There’s cutlery and a corkscrew in the sideboard drawer, if you wouldn’t mind, and glasses in the buffet. I’ll bring the food in a moment.”

“Of course.”

He topped up his drink and swallowed it quickly and opened the drawer, found the corkscrew, linen place mats and bone-handled knives and forks. He had just poured them each a glass of wine when Grell appeared, carrying two plates. She set them down and returned a moment later, minus the apron, with a basket of bread and a large salad bowl. Automatically, William took them from her, placed them on the table and held her chair for her.

Grell flushed deep pink as she took her seat with a murmured word of thanks. “Um—cheers ,” she said, awkwardly lifting her glass to him.

“Er—yes. Cheers,” he replied, saluting her in return. He turned his attention to his plate. He had never imagined he would be in Grell’s home, sharing a home-cooked meal. And such a meal—beautifully grilled trout, garnished with lemon and almonds, perfectly sauteed new potatoes and a green salad with a delicious tangy dressing, accompanied by warm crusty bread, rich yellow butter and a crisp white wine.

“This is very good,” William said between greedy bites. “Much better that what I had planned for myself.”

“I like to cook,” she answered with a shrug. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for. Mr Deeds upstairs joins me occasionally. He has a workshop in the cellar. Sometimes I help him out.”

“Ezra Deeds! I didn’t even realize he was still alive.”

“I’m not surprised. He rarely goes to the office anymore, but he’s a very sweet man. He’s helped me with a few adjustments to my own Death Scythe.”

“I guess we can’t say it’s against regulations when you have the former Head of Scythes making the changes,” he said with a faint smile. “But don’t say anything to the others. They’d be terribly jealous to think Mr Deeds had worked on yours. I thought Undertaker’s was his last.”

“Officially,” she grinned. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, “Perhaps you’d like to stop by sometime and let him see yours. He’s terribly bored and lonely.”

“I’d like that,” he said, refilling his glass and topping hers up.

They ate in silence for a few minutes until she suddenly asked, “Did you grow up in London?”

He had ignored all her questions when they first met in training and brushed aside her own confidences. She was right; he didn’t know her. “No,” he answered. “I was raised in the country. My father died when I was very young and my mother remarried. I was sent to London twice a year to visit his mother.”

“So your stepfather lived in the country?”

“No. He and my mother travelled a great deal. I was brought up by her mother.”

“You were raised by your grandmothers!” she giggled. “That explains a lot.”

Maybe it was the mellowing influence of the wine and good food, but William laughed and said, “I suppose it does. What about you? Where did you grow up?”

“In a tiny village. So tiny you would never have heard of it. My father was the Vicar.”

Once the meal was finished, Grell cleared the table and returned with a plate of biscuits, some cheese and a small bunch of dusky purple grapes. “Help yourself,” she said. “I’ll make coffee and bring it out.”

He nibbled on a biscuit and popped a few grapes in his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed a meal as much. And it wasn’t just the excellent food, he admitted. The warmth and serenity of Grell’s home soothed his usually jangled nerves and Grell had been a generous and gracious hostess—and a surprisingly good companion.

She carried a tray, bearing a coffee service, to the sitting room and placed it on a low table. As he joined her, she passed him a cup of black coffee and proffered a small dish of chocolates. He shook his head and took a seat opposite her.

With a sigh, she said, “I suppose you want to know what happened last night.”

“Please,” he replied. “You claim I know nothing about you, but I do know that your behaviour last night and today was—out of character. Something unusual happened.”

Grell sipped her coffee, the silence between them broken only by a clock ticking on the mantel. “It wasn’t unusual,” she muttered finally. “I know you’re going to say I’m being foolish and melodramatic and that I brought it on myself, but, sometimes, I just get so tired of being—of being . . . all wrong.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t suppose you do, but as far as last night is concerned, I had better start at the beginning. I’d just finished my last collection—nothing special or unusual—and I remembered that young Lucas Grant was scheduled to reap nearby. He hasn’t done many solo jobs; I thought I’d stop by and see how he was managing.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“Not according to him,” she retorted. “He was quite put out and made it very clear that he resented my interference.”

“Was he rude to you? He should be reprimanded. You are, after all, a senior agent.”

She smiled faintly. “Please don’t. I shouldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have been too pleased when I was in his position, but his remarks became rather . . . personal. So, I was feeling a bit hot and bothered and decided to take a short walk to cool down. I was distracted and careless; I didn’t think about fitting in.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing that almost everyone in the Dispatch hasn’t said at one time or another,” she replied abruptly. “Nothing you haven’t said yourself.”

William gulped his coffee and adjusted his glasses.

“There were four or five of them. If I hadn’t been so steamed about Lucas, I would have heard them coming up behind me; they wouldn’t have taken me by surprise. They surrounded me and, when they realized I wasn’t quite what they were expecting from behind . . . They became quite abusive.” She was gripping her coffee cup so hard her knuckles had turned white. “I suggested that they run along since they might not care for the results. One had me by the hair.” She rubbed a spot on her head. “Another pinned my arms behind my back.”

“I am surprised you offered so little resistance.”

“I knew they couldn’t really hurt me,” she shrugged, “but they did manage a few very well-placed kicks.” As William winced in sympathy, she continued, “So, I decided I’d had enough and broke a few noses and other bones. They weren’t on the To Die list. Believe it not, I am trying to behave myself these days.”

“It has been noticed,” William replied. “It will be on your next evaluation, in fact. But I still don’t understand why you were so shaken or so upset today.”

“Because, sometimes, I get tired. Tired of being called a freak, tired of people laughing at me, tired of just being all wrong. I know about the memo that Management sent telling the Dispatch to _humour_ me,” she spat the word with contempt, “as if it were some odd quirk of my personality. It’s who I am,” she cried. “I am a monster and a murderess, I know, but, sometimes, I can’t pretend that what the rest of you thinks of me doesn’t matter. I’ll get over it; I always do, but between Lucas and those young men . . .”

“I don’t know what to say,” he answered. “Would it make you feel better to know that I do have great respect for your abilities as a reaper? So do most of the others. But–”

“But I’m too strange and freakish and emotional,” she snapped.

“You are so flamboyant and unconventional,” he said slowly, “that I suppose we forget that you do have genuine emotions and that you can be hurt. No doubt, I have been thoughtless and cruel, but you can be very aggravating.”

“In other words, I bring it on myself.” She set her cup aside and glared at him.

“Be fair!” he exclaimed. “You make a fool of yourself every time you encounter that demon Michaelis. You created a scene in the Library with Undertaker.”

“Jealous?” she inquired, her mouth quirking up at one corner.

“No! But you simply refuse to behave normally.”

“Maybe this _is_ normal for me,” she said quietly.

William set his own cup down and leaned forward. “I don’t believe you,” he retorted. “Yes, you are dramatic and you enjoy being the centre of attention. You like to tease and flirt, but it’s all superficial; it’s all for show. You wouldn’t be nearly so hurt by Lucas’s comments or the taunts of those men if you were as brazen as you like people to think you are.”

“You may be right, at that,” she said with a faint smile. “Anyhow, thank you for hearing me out without laughing at me. Would you like another cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.” He checked the clock and stood. “I should be going.”

“Of course,” she said, rising. She hesitated before speaking again. “I did enjoy having you here this evening. Would you care to come again? I’ll invite Mr Deeds down as well.”

“I would like to meet him,” he said as she walked him to the door. “And Grell . . .”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I enjoyed the meal very much.”

She smiled and nodded and closed the door behind him. He began to walk home slowly. Perhaps he should have added something more personal—that he was glad she had confided in him, that he had enjoyed more than just the food—but he had never been able to say the right thing, until, finally, it had become easier to say nothing at all.

Back at his apartment, he removed his jacket, shoes and tie and stowed his uneaten meal in the icebox. He tried to relax in his favourite chair and empty his mind, but his thoughts were undisciplined and unruly. Grell, in her own home, had been so different and unexpected. He had been taken aback by the ease and comfort of her little house and was shaken by the realization of how little he knew her. Sipping a drink, he confessed to himself that the force of her personality had frightened him. But she had been wrong in accusing him of not caring to know her – a carefully cultivated mask of indifference and disdain had been his only protection, his only means of hiding from the truth. She was a whirlwind, a force of nature, a creature of flame and passion. To know her, to become close to her would engulf him once again in disgrace and ruin.


	2. Chapter 2

“Now William, you must understand that your Grandmother Spears’s home will be very different from what you are used to.”

“Yes Mother,” he mumbled. “But couldn’t I come with you and Mr Benjamin instead?”

“Oh William!” his mother laughed. “Don’t be silly. India is no place for a child and you’ll be going away to school next year. You have a lovely home with Grandmother Marlowe.”

“Then why do I have to go to London for a month?” He stared out of the carriage window at the crowded street. “Why do I have to stay with Grandmother Spears?”

“Grandmother is going to Bath to visit friends and your stepfather and I shall be sailing next week. You’ll have a lovely time in London. I’m sure.”

She didn’t sound as though she believed it, William thought. Nor did she care, but he tried to ignore that thought. He pushed his spectacles up his nose and told himself to be brave. Big boys of ten should not be frightened all the time. But London was so crowded and noisy and dirty. Gangs of ragged boys ran shrieking through the street. The road was clogged with carriages and horses and people. He wished he was back in the country. Even Grandmother Marlowe’s cold and ugly house was better than the noise and filth of the city.

The street had become less crowded as the carriage turned. Reassuring glimpses of grass and trees could be seen and, finally, they travelled along a road that ran parallel to the river and came to a stop before a row of houses.

A small, plump woman trotted down the steps leading to one of these houses, exclaiming, “Oh my dears! You’re here at last.”

William stared in amazement at the snug little house with its window boxes filled with blooms. Where was the hovel he had been expecting? He felt the knots in his stomach begin to loosen as the smiling woman beamed at him and folded him into her arms. “Oh William!” she said softly. “You look just like your father.” He inhaled the scent of lavender and soap and knew he had come home.

There followed four magical weeks. Looking back, very few incidents stood out, but the days passed in a golden haze of warmth and contentment. Working in her tiny garden and getting gloriously dirty, shelling peas for dinner in the kitchen, walking to the park to feed the pigeons the scraps of bread they had saved. A trip to the shops to buy provisions every day and a lively debate over which cakes to select for tea.

He had been told that his grandmother was not well off, but there seemed to be an abundance of good food and little treats in her house and, frequently, a guest to share their meal: the kindly Vicar who would drop by for tea or an ancient surly widower who was given Sunday dinner. He worried about the expense and pointed out that his mother had given him a guinea to spend.

“Maybe we should use it to pay for all the food I’m eating,” he suggested, for his usually nervous stomach had vanished and he seemed to be ravenously hungry all the time.

“No dear,” she smiled. “I may not be wealthy like your Grandmother Marlowe, but I’ve enough to feed us.” And towards the end of his visit, he dropped the gold coin into the donation box at the nearby Battersea Home for Lost and Starving Dogs.

He had returned to the cold, unwelcoming house in the country and retreated to the cowed, unsmiling child he had been while he counted the days to his next visit until he was twelve. Then the letter came from the Vicar that Nana Spears had woken up feeling poorly one morning and was gone three days later.

“Honestly William,” Grandmother Marlowe sneered when she found him weeping under his bedclothes, “don’t be so emotional.”

So he had shut away his memories until the scent of lavender and the sight of a window box full of flowers in Grell’s pretty little house allowed him to speak, for the first time, of the only person who had truly loved him.

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell seemed to return to her usual self over the following days. William could hear her laugh and dramatic pronouncements ringing through the office. She flirted outrageously with every male she encountered and made coyly suggestive comments at every opportunity—except with him. In his presence she was calm and polite and treated him with detached friendliness, as if he were a recent acquaintance. She took no great pains to avoid him, but neither did she seek him out.

Alone at home, William sternly told himself to be grateful. Grell’s constant declarations of passionate love had been embarrassing and annoying and he had other things to worry about at the moment—a series of deaths in London. Names not on the To Die list. Reaching for the bottle to refill his glass, he noticed, with a shock, that it was almost empty. His cleaner was obviously helping herself to his drink.

It was a beautiful evening. A short walk would be enjoyable, he thought and set out. He purchased a bottle of brandy and another of whiskey and refilled his flask when he realized he was quite near Grell’s house. If asked, in the past, how she passed her free time, he would have assumed she was carousing or chasing after some sort of unsuitable companionship, either here or in the human world. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe the brandy he had already consumed made him careless, but, without thinking, he turned down her street and knocked at her door. He was about to leave when she finally appeared, dressed in a mud-stained overall, her hands caked with soil and a smear of dirt on her cheek. Her hair was fastened in a loose braid and held back with a blue and white striped kerchief.

“I—er, I was passing by,” he stammered, feeling like a fool.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she commanded. “Either come in or leave.”

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“I was working in the garden,” she said as his eyes travelled over her. She raised her hand dramatically to her forehead, leaving another smudge. “To think that you should finally call upon me and find me in such a state!” she grinned and led him in. “After years of dreaming that I would receive you draped in a satin negligee, stretched out seductively on a tiger skin rug. Reality is so disappointing.”

But she looked charming in her dishevelment, he thought with a start. Her face devoid of make-up, she appeared younger and softer than he could recall ever seeing her. Alarmed at the path his thoughts were taking, he thrust the bag he was carrying at her. “Um—would you like a drink?”

She peered into the bag with amusement. “Were you planning to get me drunk and take advantage of me?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I was just about to make a pot of tea. Go sit in the garden while I clean up a bit and I’ll bring us some.”

He opened the French doors that led out to the terrace and was enchanted. An herbaceous border ran the length of one wall. He recognized many blossoms from his Nana’s garden: tall delphiniums and rhododendrons, pale blue and white hyacinths and purple pansies and froths of lily of the valley. The other side of the stone pathway was bordered by rose bushes. It was too early in the year for them to bloom, but he could picture the abundance of sweetly scented flowers and wondered what colours she had chosen. They had to be red, he thought. A small stand of trees sheltered the furthest end. He could see a bird feeder hanging from one of the lower branches and a weathered stone bird bath surrounded by feathery ferns and grasses.

It was so beautiful, so peaceful, so welcoming and so achingly familiar. He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not hear Grell come out until she said, “Shall I be mother?”

“What?”

“Shall I pour the tea, silly?” She passed him a cup and a plate of biscuits.

He took one and bit into it and recognized the flavour.

“It’s Undertaker’s receipt,” she said. “I badgered him until he gave it to me, although I prefer a different shape.”

“You’ve called on Undertaker?” he asked.

“Why yes,” she giggled. “I’m really quite annoyed with you for not having told me about him earlier. He’s lovely.”

“Don’t be fooled by that old lunatic act he puts on,” William said sternly. “He operates outside of Shinigami rules; he is extraordinarily knowledgeable and powerful.”

“Well, he’s never been anything but sweet to me,” she retorted. “But we’re both outsiders.”

She was, he admitted. In spite of her flamboyance and exuberant manner, he realized he rarely saw her in the company of anyone else. “Do—do you have any friends?” he asked hesitantly.

“No, but I’m too strange. What’s your excuse?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I may not have any friends, but neither do you. And don’t say it’s because you’re a Supervisor. Even when we were in training you kept to yourself, brushing aside everyone, not just me.”

He sipped his tea nervously and thought longingly of his flask.

“I’m sorry for speaking out of turn,” her voice interrupted his thoughts “It’s entirely your business, but,” her voice became gentle, “just like you said you didn’t believe I was as brazen as I act, I don’t think you are as cold as you pretend. I don’t know what happened in your former existence to make you think you have to behave this way, but you’ve been given a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

How dare she, he fumed. She knew nothing of what it was like to grow up unwanted, merely tolerated, to have experienced only a few weeks of happiness throughout a dull, grey existence. To have snatched impulsively at a single moment of joy and have it torn away. To have faced the harsh truth that there was no one to care whether he lived and one who thought he would be better off dead.

But she was looking at him with real compassion. “Dear William. I’ve been wanting to say that for almost a century. You might not care to be friends with _me_ and I can’t blame you, considering what I’ve put you through, but don’t spend this time alone. We are doing penance, but how can you learn to appreciate the gift of life when you refuse to live?”

He was horrified to feel his throat closing. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for his flask and taking a long swig.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said agreeably. “Any more than you can understand what it’s like to be born in the wrong body, but the Higher Up has said, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!’”

She covered his hand with hers. “Why can’t we help each other up?”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell had insisted on showing him around her garden. He had proudly identified several of her flowers and pedantically pointed out that the pea plants in her vegetable plot were too close together; that was why they were not flourishing. “Nana grew peas,” he said without thinking. “She said they had to be twelve to eighteen inches apart.”

“Were there gardens in your other grandmother’s house,” she asked.

“There was a garden, if you could call it that,” he replied. “It was hideous and formal. All the trees and shrubs looked like they were frightened of each other. Nothing belonged there. Even the flowers looked miserable. The only cheerful spot was the vegetable garden. The gardener had a dovecote; sometimes he let me help him feed the birds.”

Somehow, she had persuaded him to agree to come for dinner the following week. She would invite Mr Deeds, she said. He told himself firmly that he was merely looking forward to a good meal and a chance to meet a respected elder Shinigami.

Grell continued to prod him gently about his youth. “It sounds as if your grandmother was quite well off. Was the house large?”

“It was big and ugly and cold all the time,” he said bluntly. “Even in the summer. She wasn’t that well-to-do, although she would have you believe otherwise. Almost everything was spent on keeping up appearances and trying to fit in with the Suffolk gentry.”

“Suffolk! But it’s beautiful there. What a pity you should have grown up in such unpleasant surroundings when the county is so pretty.”

“You know the area?”

“Not really,” she answered, “but my mother and I went to stay with her sister there when I was about eleven. She was having a baby and . . . ”

William grasped her by her upper arms and stared into her face as if seeing her for the first time.

“It was you!”

XXXXXXXXXX

He had returned from his first term at school paler and thinner than ever and was turned out into the garden for an hour every day, no matter the weather. He didn’t really mind; when it rained he took shelter in the dovecote and was soothed by the soft cooing of the pigeons. William didn’t dislike his school, but neither did he like it. He produced consistent, slightly above average results and was fast and wiry enough to acquit himself in games without disgrace. The other boys paid no attention to him, except when Nana Spears sent him a box of cakes and treats, but there was no deliberate cruelty directed at him.

On that particular day, he was as contented as it was possible for him to be. Only three weeks remained until his departure for London and he had snuck a copy of _Gulliver’s Travels_ out of the house. He was propped against a low wooden fence at the edge of the vegetable garden, enjoying his book and the warmth of the sun when his solitude was interrupted.

“Hello.”

A child, his own age, was hanging on the wooden gate.

“Er—hello,” he replied. Of course there were other children in the village; he saw them at church, but he was not permitted to associate with them.

“That’s an awfully big book you’re reading. You must be terribly clever to be able to read a book like that. My schoolmaster says I’m thick as a plank.” This was delivered with such an infectious laugh that William joined in.

“I’ve never seen you before. Do you live here?” He was sure he would have noticed that unusual dark red hair.

“No. I’m visiting my aunt. She’s having a baby and she’s this big right now.” He held his arms in front of himself, mimicking a gigantic belly. “My mother and I took the stagecoach. Hundreds and hundreds of miles—further than you’ve ever travelled.”

“I’ve been all the way to London!” William boasted.

“Have you really?” His eyes grew wide. “Did you see the king?”

“No, but I saw his crown when my Nana took me to the Tower of London. People used to get their heads cut off there, you know.”

“I know that. Chop! Chop! Chop!” He drew his hand across his throat and flung himself dramatically onto the ground with an unearthly groan while William stared in bemusement at him. He jumped to his feet. “Well, come on! Let’s go!”

“Go? Where?”

“Anywhere! To have an adventure!”

And William discarded his book and slipped through a gap in the fence to follow the strange, elfin child who beckoned him without a second thought.

They sailed boats made of leaves on the river and made up stories about where they were headed. Happening upon a barn, they jumped from the loft into the piles of hay below. They found an old weeping willow tree and swung back and forth from its low-hanging branches, shrieking with glee and they lay on their backs on a hilltop and described pictures in the clouds to one another.

He reluctantly returned to the house hours later, his clothes torn and dirty and covered with hay. His grandmother was furious and confined him to his room. From his window, he could see the redheaded figure hanging on the gate, but, by the time he was permitted outside again, the child had stopped coming.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Gracious!” Grell laughed. “It is a small world. To think you were that pale, solemn boy.”

And to think that Grell was that fey little creature. “Those were the only happy hours I ever experienced in that house,” he said quietly.

“Hush,” she whispered. She took his arm and pointed at the birdbath. A pair of finches were perched on the edge. “They come every evening,” she said. “I think they must have their nest near here.” She walked slowly with him along the stone path, still holding his arm. “It would seem the fates have decreed that we be together,” she grinned at him, “no matter how much you might wish otherwise.”

“Quite so,” he said, adjusting his glasses and trying regain his composure as he fought back the urge to cover the hand, that was still clasping his arm, with his own. She had discarded the dirt-stained overall on his arrival and was wearing a loose blue dress and padded barefoot on the path next to him. Grell’s garden was casting some sort of magical spell over him. How else could it be that he marvelled at how the last rays of the sun had touched her hair with fire? Or wondered why he had never noticed how large and limpid her eyes were?

“I’m glad you stopped by,” she said softly.

“So am I.” Without thinking, he smoothed an errant strand of her hair back from her face. He snatched his hand away. “An insect,” he mumbled. But his fingertips were tingling from the brief contact; her skin was so soft and her hair felt like silk.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Now, you won’t forget that you’re coming for dinner on Sunday, will you? Or I’ll come after you with my Death Scythe.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he replied, following her to the door. “I’ll see you then.”

He shook his head at his foolishness as she closed the door behind him. He would doubtless see Grell several times in the office over the next few days. But in the office, she seemed like a completely different person and he walked slowly home puzzling over which was the true Grell.

XXXXXXXXXX

He had last seen Grell on Friday before she left for her scheduled collections. Aside from a laughing reminder that her Death Scythe was at the ready, she had made no reference to his visit earlier that week. He was relieved, but surprised—he had never imagined that Grell was capable of being discreet. His own week had passed in a haze of exhaustion and mountains of paperwork—an extra shift to cover an injured reaper and further investigations into the deaths in London.

In a sudden fit of dissatisfaction with the barrenness of his apartment he had bought a red geranium plant while replenishing his drink supply, which promptly began to wither and droop. This, he clutched under one arm as he held a bottle of wine in the other and knocked upon Grell’s door.

“How lovely,” she said, raising an eyebrow when he thrust it at her.

“Silly thing began to die as soon as I got it home,” he grumbled. “I thought you might be able to do something with it.”

“I’ll try,” she smiled. “You go on and fetch a drink and I’ll be with you shortly. Mr Deeds will be down in a bit.” She led him into the sitting room.

He spotted a familiar, black-clad figure sitting on her terrace. “Undertaker is here?”

“Why yes. The poor dear doesn’t get a home-cooked meal very often. I popped over and dragged him back with me.”

“That’s right. He-he-he!” he cackled, entering the room. “Dear Grell took pity on a lonely, old geezer. Didn’t you?” He ran a long, black fingernail under her chin.

She slapped his hand away playfully. “You can drop the crazy old man act. You’re among friends.”

“As you wish, my dear.” He caught her hand and kissed it as she turned pink and turned to William. “It seems Grell invites lonely young geezers to dinner as well.”

There was no good answer to that, so William poured himself a drink and took a large swallow as Grell ushered a short, plump man with a great deal of frizzy, grey hair into the room.

“You both know Mr Deeds,” she said.

“Spears,” the older man grunted as William extended his hand. He peered at Undertaker. “And . . . um, it’ll come back to me in a minute. Never forget a Scythe; names are another matter.”

“Why don’t you just call him Undertaker, dear?” Grell suggested.

They sat down to what William’s Nana had called “a proper Sunday dinner” of tender roast beef, beautifully browned and crunchy roast potatoes, pillow-like Yorkshire pudding and assorted vegetables. A lively debate ensued about the relative merits of their Death Scythes.

“Mine is simple and efficient,” William insisted as he refilled his wine glass. “It gets the job done.”

“But it lacks the classic elegance of mine,” Undertaker argued. “And, of course, neither of us possesses the style and flair of dear Grell.”

“Thank you, darling,” she simpered. “I like to think of myself as one of a kind.”

“Because you are, my dear.”

William was beginning to wonder how he had ever admired Undertaker as he flirted shamelessly with Grell. Surely, a retired reaped of his renown should have more dignity, show more restraint. Envious of the silver-haired reaper’s effortless ability to charm, he changed the subject.

“How’s business? Good, I suppose.”

“Must be,” Mr Deeds interjected. “People never stop dying.”

“A good thing, too,” he replied with a grin. “Or there would be no need for the likes of us. But your friend, Sebastian, dropped by last week.”

“Really! How is dearest Bassy?” she purred.

“He and the boy have a commission from Her Majesty. There have been a number of brutal murders recently. People are saying it’s the work of Jack the Ripper.”

An awkward silence fell over the table. “How absurd!” Grell said with a forced laugh.

“Indeed,” William said. “I suppose any particularly vicious death will be blamed on the Ripper from now on. But this is hardly a suitable topic for a dinner conversation,” he said, anxious to silence Undertaker before he said more.

Grell leapt up and began to clear the table with great energy. William noticed a spot of blood on her mouth as she chewed her lip nervously.

“There are certain similarities to the Ripper murders,” Undertaker said. “They are from the same walk of society, but–”

“Those killings can be nothing like Jack the Ripper’s,” she muttered, snatching up his empty plate and marching from the room as he followed her.

William could hear Undertaker speaking softly to Grell in the kitchen. He felt himself flush with suppressed annoyance and swallowed the last of his wine. He was Grell’s supervisor; he had known her longer than anyone. He should be the one calming her down or comforting her. Undertaker was merely . . . What? An acquaintance? A friend? Her lover?

But they had returned. Grell bore a treacle pudding and a jug of custard and Undertaker was carrying a stack of dessert plates while Mr Deeds adroitly steered the talk back to Death Scythes.

“Come down to my workshop when we’re done eating, Spears. I’ll show you some very ancient models and take a look at yours.”

“Oh! Do go, William,” Grell insisted. “It’s terribly interesting and you mustn’t pass up a chance to let Ezra see yours. Undertaker and I shall be fine on our own.”

“Yes William,” he added with a sardonic smile. “Do go. Dearest Grell and I will amuse ourselves somehow.”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to glare at the older reaper, but he was convinced that he knew what he was thinking and was enjoying his turmoil mightily.

“Lovely meal,” Mr Deeds said, pushing his empty plate away. “Such a treat for an old bachelor.”

“Indeed,” Undertaker chimed in. “Delicious as always. A charming hostess and—interesting company,” he added, smirking at William.

Always? Was he a regular visitor? His thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Deeds. “Why don’t we go down to the workshop? We’ll leave these two to dote on one another.”

He was beginning to wonder if there were any regulations concerning what would happen if he punched a retired reaper—something he was sorely tempted to do if Undertaker’s grin got any wider—but nodded and followed the older man downstairs.

His collection was impressive and William knew he was fortunate to see it as he showed him Scythes made of iron, bronze and even stone, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He could hear soft laughter, low talk and then silence. What were they doing? Forcing himself to pay attention, he produced his own Scythe at the other man’s request and watched him tinker with it.

“Try it now.”

He obeyed. Somehow, it felt smoother and better-balanced in his hand. The shears snapped together with greater speed and force.

“Bring it back sometime and we’ll see about extending your range,” he suggested.

“Really? When I asked about that I was told it was impossible.”

“The current Head of Scythes is very good,” he said. “He should be—I trained him myself, but he doesn’t know everything,” he added smugly.

“Thank you, sir,” William replied. “I’m grateful that you would take the trouble.” He was; he knew he had just been granted a very rare privilege, but that didn’t stop the flood of sour envy that suddenly engulfed him. He thought of Grell’s triple A in combat and Undertaker’s reputation and the mastery he had just witnessed and wished with all his heart that, rather than being good enough at most things, he could be superlative at one. He tried to banish the feeling with a quick swig from his flask while Mr Deeds put his tools away.

Suddenly, the old man spoke. “Spears, you’re a fool.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I’m an old man—much older than you—even older than what’s-his-name upstairs. I saw your face while we were eating. Stop drowning your feelings in that flask of yours.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered.

“Yes, you do, but I’ve had my say.”

They joined Grell and Undertaker, who was wielding a spade with great energy, in the garden.

“He’s digging a new vegetable bed for me,” she said. “Isn’t that sweet? Hasn’t he done a lovely job?”

Since digging holes in the ground was part of his job, William failed to see what was so admirable, but nodded and adjusted his glasses while resisting the temptation to shove him into it. “I hope you’re not planting tomatoes or cucumbers. There’s far too much shade. You’d do better with carrots or lettuce in a spot like that.”

“Why William,” Undertaker chuckled, “I never imagined you to be so green-fingered. I supposed you were born at a desk.”

“He knows quite a bit, in fact,” Grell stated, taking the spade from him.

“Might explain the pruning shears,” he said with a shrug. “But I must be off, my dear. It wouldn’t do to leave my guests unattended for too long, given the weather in London right now.” He nodded at William and Mr Deeds and gave Grell a hug and kiss on the cheek and vanished. William was sure he had seen him squeeze Grell’s rump. And he had thought Grell was an incorrigible flirt. Honestly!

Mr Deeds took his leave shortly afterwards and they were left alone. “That was a delicious meal,” he said, helping her clear the table. “My favourite when I visited London. Nana always made it for my first and last dinner.”

“You loved her,” Grell said softly as she filled the sink with hot water. “I’m glad you have some happy memories of your childhood.”

He took up a towel and began to dry the dishes. “She loved me; she was the only one who did.”

“What about your mother?”

“Maybe she did once, but I was a reminder of an impetuous and unsuitable marriage. Her husband was posted to India, then Hong Kong. I don’t think I saw her more than three times after she remarried. But what about you? You said your father was in the church. It must have been very . . .” He fumbled for the right word.

“Difficult?” she suggested. “Not so much when I was young, even though I always knew there was something _wrong_ about me. Father was strict, but not unkind; he and Mother just couldn’t understand me as I grew older, but I barely understood myself. They died of influenza when I was twelve and I was put on the parish roll.”

“Were you sent to the workhouse?” He tried to picture the carefree child he had met picking oakum or breaking rocks.

“Briefly. It was dreadful, so I ran away and made my way to London.”

“How did you manage that?”

“How do you suppose?” she said with a bitter laugh.

William shuddered. “And in London?”

“Light fingers and selling the only thing I owned. I did quite well at first. I looked younger than I was for a long time, so I was popular among those with certain tastes. Eventually, a Molly house. At least I was able to wear a dress.” She took the damp towel from him, spread it to dry and fumbled with the knot behind her back, securing the apron she had donned. “Believe me,” she muttered, plucking at the string, “Jack the Ripper did those women a favour. _I_ know.”

But to have butchered them so savagely! He moved behind her and untangled her apron strings. “And there is something I need to discuss with you. I was going to wait until we were in the office, but–”

She turned to face him. They were standing so closely together their bodies were almost touching. “It’s about those killings in London, isn’t it? They think it’s I.”

“Your name has been mentioned. It would be to your advantage if you were able to account for your time since they took place. And you will not be collecting alone for a while.”

She pushed him away and laughed shrilly. “William! Darling!” she exclaimed. “Do you really believe that having Ronnie or Lucas tag along would stop _me_?” Her eyes began to glitter.

“It’s for your own good,” he exclaimed desperately as she flushed with anger. “As long as you are accompanied, no suspicion can fall on you.”

“Perhaps I should go to London and look up dearest Bassy,” she said, unpinning a spray of silk violets that held back her hair and shaking it free. “It’s been months since I’ve seen him.” Her mouth curled into a smile.

“You mustn’t!” he ordered. “It would be most improper.”

“But William, dear, I am most improper. Everyone knows that.” Her voice had taken on a brittle, hard quality.

He grasped her by her arms. “I forbid it!”

“And who are you to forbid me?” she asked, her voice rising.

“I’m your Supervisor.”

“Then you’ll have to place me under house arrest. You have no control over how I spend my free time.”

“Dammit Grell!” he shouted. “You make it impossible for someone who cares about your well-being!” Frustrated beyond all measure, he shook her as hard as he could while she laughed wildly in his face.

“You’re simply worried about how it would reflect on you!” she snarled.

“I am not!” He backed her up against the counter, pinning her with his body, and slammed his hands down onto the counter top on either side of her. Their faces were inches apart; he could feel her warm breath. “But I will not have you prancing around London in the company of that demon,” he spat. “Nor are you to go to Undertaker for information.”

She smiled and wound her arms around his neck. “Anyone would think you were jealous,” she murmured.

William stared down at her. Her cheeks were pink, her green-gold eyes were large and luminous and her lips were slightly quivering.

“But that would be absurd,” she said abruptly, releasing him and slipping under his arm to escape his hold.

“But I am,” he muttered, thinking of Mr Deeds’s words and resisting the urge to reach for his flask.

“What did you just say?”

“I am,” he repeated.

She grabbed his hand. “Come on! Let’s go!”

“Go? Where?”

“To have an adventure, silly!” she giggled. “I refuse to hear a declaration I’ve been dreaming about for close to a hundred years at the kitchen sink.”

And he followed the magical changeling he had encountered over a century earlier out to the garden. The shadows were lengthening as she pulled him along the path to a cluster of plants he had not noticed during his earlier visit. The sweet fragrance of their pale violet and white flowers filled the air.

“They’re called Marvel of Peru. They only bloom in the late afternoon and at night. Now, say it again.” She had let go of his hand and was standing before him, her eyes fixed on the ground.

“I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” he finally managed. “In fact, I’m terrible at it, but . . . Yes, I am jealous. Jealous of Sebastian and Undertaker and every other man you flirt with. I want to have an adventure—with you.”

“Why now?” she asked. “You’ve loathed me for years.”

“Grell! You have infuriated me, embarrassed me and driven me almost to madness for decades, but I have never disliked you. Sometimes—most of the time, you’re just . . . too much,” he concluded awkwardly.

“And now?”

“No doubt you will continue to annoy me and aggravate me no end, but you seem to have been placed in my path.” How to explain the growing certainty, since his visit earlier in the week, that his fate was inextricably linked with hers?

“What about the office? Aren’t you concerned how something like this would affect you? Or,” her eyes narrowed in suspicion, “were you planning to keep it hush-hush? Your shameful secret.”

“No!” he cried, genuinely affronted. “We would have to exercise a certain amount of discretion, but I am not ashamed.” He took her hands in his. “Surprised? Yes, but that is my own fault for brushing you aside for years, for never taking the time to know you.”

“Can you wait?”

“Wait? Why?”

“We’ve waited more than ninety years; a few more weeks won’t hurt. Until these killings in London are sorted out. I _am_ under suspicion, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but I swear I believe you are not involved.”

“Thank you, dear,” she smiled, “but until my name is cleared, it would be best to wait. You would hardly be considered an impartial investigator. And there is something else.”

“What?”

“This.” She tapped the flask in his pocket. “Dear William. I’ve been wanting to say something about it for the longest time, but I knew you would be furious.”

He flushed. “It’s not how it appears.”

“Yes, it is. I know what state you’re in most mornings. You’ve done a very good job of hiding it, but not from me. It’s not a condition for—for us, but I can’t bear to see you doing this to yourself and I would rather see you walk away from me in a rage than stand by and watch you.” She took his face between her hands. “Shinigami are not immune to its effects. In fact, it’s worse for us because we will not die—simply grow more and more dependant until our minds and bodies rot.”

“Honestly Grell!” he exclaimed, jerking his head away. “You’re making a great fuss over nothing.”

“Am I? Think about it.”

How dare she? How dare she suggest that having taken a drink too many to deal with the stress of his job—much of it caused by her—indicated a problem? He sighed. How dare she be right?

“You may be correct,” he said stiffly. “It is a personal failing that I must address.”

She smiled faintly. “That is all I ask. For your sake. Now, you silly, blind fool, put your arms around me and kiss me!” she cried dramatically.

William complied. He drew her into his arms and lowered his head. Her lips were soft and yielding and honeyed. His tongue reached out hesitantly, mindful of her teeth, to probe delicately the silken recesses of her mouth as her arms slid about him. He held her closer and gently coaxed her lips to open beneath his, trying desperately to convey what he could not say—that he had been stubborn and proud and blind for decades. She fit so neatly in his arms and filled the empty space in his heart.

She was sweetly flushed when he released her. His finger reached out to touch the faint stain of pink on her cheeks. “You are right about waiting. And the other,” he added reluctantly.

Taking his hand and leading him along the stone path, she said, “It will be difficult, I know. On both counts, but we deserve to begin with nothing hanging over us.”

“We’ve wasted so much time,” he murmured.

She poked him hard in the chest. “You’ve wasted so much time. _I_ knew from the start.”

If only he hadn’t been so blind, so aloof. If he had been kinder at the beginning, would she have learned to take such pleasure in the reckless spilling of blood? Would she have allied herself with Madam Red? Would she be under a cloud of suspicion today? Would he have sought refuge and respite in the bottle to numb the feelings he wouldn’t admit? He sighed and adjusted his glasses. They faced a mighty battle; he faced a greater one, he confessed, but, gathering her into his arms again, he knew that he could no longer endure his grey, monochrome world alone.


	3. Chapter 3

It was far more difficult than he had expected. A dozen times a day, he reached into his empty pocket for his flask. At night, he paced restlessly about his apartment, every nerve in his body screaming for the relaxing warmth of just one sip. Some nights he failed and woke the next morning feeling sick and dizzy and consumed with disgust for himself.

Grell was on the night shift. He saw her briefly in the morning when he arrived at the office, but ten days had passed with nothing more than a snatched, casual greeting. She had forwarded a scrupulously detailed report of her activities for the past month, but it provided little help in clearing her since she had been off duty at the time of the murders and he had learned some alarming information about the killings that he didn’t dare share with her. He called her into his office at the end of her shift.

“It’s dreadful,” she said, “to wish that another death would take place, but, if I could prove I was nowhere near, at least it would put me in the clear. Unless you suspect that I have found another partner.”

“Grell! You know I suspect nothing,” he insisted. “But Management has brought up that possibility.”

“Then, perhaps, you should put me under house arrest,” she grinned. “You can volunteer to be my watchdog.”

“Or you could be mine,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a large swig of his coffee. “I had no idea it would be so hard.”

“Oh, my dear,” she said, “I wish I could be of some help to you in this.”

“You are.” He covered her hand briefly with his own. “It’s odd, but it seems like such a relief to able to talk about it. Talking about anything was frowned upon in my grandmother’s house.”

“Do you think this was a problem before? In your human life?”

He nodded. “Looking back, I know it was. A few sips here and there to calm down or relax; a glass or two with a meal or a few in the evening to help me sleep. A gentleman is expected to drink; no one noticed. No one cared to notice.”

“I care,” she said quietly, “and I noticed. My father was the same. It wasn’t until many years later that I understood. Had he not been struck down by influenza, it would have killed him the same as it does so many of the souls we collect.”

“How did you avoid it? Forgive me, but the living the life you described after coming to London—most turn to drink.”

“Or opium,” she said bluntly. “If you had seen what men or women would do for the penny to buy a cup of gin like I did; I kept away. Also, I was too vain to turn into a gin-soaked, raddled old whore.” She tossed her hair back, but William caught a glimpse of pain in her expression.

“I wish I had your strength of will.”

“Then you must ask the Higher Up to give you that strength.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “Now, what’s all this about Ronnie saying last night was the last shift we would be on together?”

William adjusted his glasses nervously. “I’m sorry. I meant to inform you earlier, but we are short a man at the moment. I can’t afford to pair you with an experienced agent at this time. You will be collecting with Lucas for the time being.”

She pulled a face. “Oh dear. He doesn’t care for me at all and he’ll take it as a personal insult to be taken from solo collections. And he won’t like being forced to collect so far from London.”

“That’s unfortunate, but I have no choice.” It was imperative to keep Grell as far from London as possible. He began to fidget uncharacteristically with a pen on his desk. “I was looking at the schedule. You have a free evening tomorrow. I was wondering if I might call on you.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she grinned. “Come for supper. Shall I invite Ezra as well?”

He reached across his desk, took her hand in his and looked directly into her eyes. “No.”

“Good.”

XXXXXXXXXX

William was late arriving at Grell’s. A botched collection by a junior agent had sent him to London for a good part of the day and more news about the murders detained him at the office. He held out a bunch of flowers by way of apology. “They’re nowhere near as nice as anything you grow,” he said, “but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed.”

“They’re lovely,” she insisted. “Go on out to the terrace. It’s so warm I thought we might eat out there this evening.” She wore a simple, loose rose-sprigged white cotton dress and had tied her hair back with a pink ribbon.

“You look charming,” he said, “but I was hoping for that satin negligee you mentioned.”

“I’m saving that for a special occasion,” she laughed and handed him a tall glass. “It’s lemonade.”

“Homemade,” he sighed happily. “I haven’t had this since I was a boy.”

She passed him a plate of poached salmon, new potatoes and watercress salad and watched, smiling, as he wolfed it down. “There’s raspberries and cream for after. And please don’t say that you had that at your Nana’s. If everything I do reminds you of your Nana, I’m making entirely the wrong impression.”

“But you’re not,” he said urgently. “Her house was the only place I ever felt happy—or loved.”

“Well, now there’s another. Were you held up at the office?”

“Yes, but it’s good news—in a way.” He greedily spooned up his berries, savouring their sweetness and the thick, rich cream. “There was another murder today. It sounds awful to call it good news, but you and Lucas were nowhere near London today. This should go a long way in removing suspicion from you.”

“Except I was in London today,” she mumbled.

He dropped his spoon in dismay. “Grell,” he said slowly, “what were you doing in London? Please tell me that Lucas accompanied you.”

“He didn’t. He was insufferable all day. I’d had enough and decided to pay Undertaker a visit.”

William rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Honestly Grell! What were you thinking?”

“I’m tired of knowing nothing. None of you will tell me how the investigation is progressing. Anyhow, it shouldn’t be a problem. Undertaker can vouch for my presence.”

“He is just as likely to swear he saw you hacking up one of the victims, if it provided him with sufficient amusement,” he said sourly. “He lives outside of our rules.” He searched her face. She appeared calm; Undertaker must have respected Management’s ruling.

“Really William! He’s been very kind to me over the past several months.”

“You must show more care! You are not to move about the human world alone for the time being.”

“I suppose that means putting up with Lucas,” she grimaced. “Ugh! That weasel-like smile. He’s one of those sorts who does something unkind and complains that you can’t take a joke.”

“Should I speak to him?”

“Please don’t. It would only make things worse. But Undertaker did pass on one piece of interesting information. It seems dear Sebastian would like to speak to me. All my dreams are coming true lately,” she said, batting her eyelashes furiously.

“Whatever for?” William exclaimed. This had to be prevented.

She shrugged. “Maybe he wants some insight into the mind of a crazed butcher of prostitutes.”

He stared at her. It was so easy to forget that she had savagely murdered five women and turned on her partner; so difficult to reconcile with the peace and serenity of her home. He finally asked the one question he had never dared. “Why? Why did you do it? And why did you kill Madam Red?”

“I’ll let you work that out for yourself,” she replied. “When you do, you will truly understand me.”

“And you feel no remorse?”

“Not as you would understand. Now,” she continued, “I think it is a good idea to speak with Sebastian. He might have evidence that could help, but I will not see him with Lucas standing by, smirking at me.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m not too fond of the fellow myself,” William confessed.

“And I don’t think you want me visiting Sebastian on my own,” she grinned, “or meeting him at Undertaker’s.”

“Certainly not!”

“Then you’ll have to come with me.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed. Reluctant as he was to admit it, Sebastian might be of some help to them. “I’ll send word to Undertaker to arrange a meeting.” She was not going to meet the demon on her own if he had to tie her to a chair to prevent it.

“Why wait?” She began to clear the table. “They’re at the brat’s townhouse. We could pop over to London right now.”

“It would be highly irregular. I should make a report to Management and act on their recommendations.” He picked up their remaining cutlery and glasses and followed her inside.

“As if they would allow us to meet with a demon!” she snorted. “I know I shouldn’t have given Lucas the slip today, but I am trying to behave myself. Don’t force me to take matters into my own hands.”

William sighed. She was so impulsive and reckless. She would disregard any ruling from Management. “Very well.”

She stacked their plates next to the sink. “I’ll just slip back into my work clothes and we’ll go. But first . . .” She slid her arms around his waist and tipped her face up to his. “Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?”

He cupped her face in his hands. Her lips were faintly stained and tasted of the sweetness of the berries they had eaten. His fingers threaded through the vibrant silk of her hair as she returned his kiss eagerly. She was warm and soft and so yielding. He groaned softly and broke the embrace. “I won’t be in any fit state to pay calls if we continue.”

Grell laid her head against his chest and laughed softly. “Nor will I,” she murmured. She raised her eyes to look at him. “Oh William! I do hate being under this cloud of suspicion. I can feel everyone’s eyes upon me at the office. Please, tell me again that you believe I’m innocent.”

“I do. These killings are brutal and the victims are similar, but they bear no other resemblance to the work of Jack the Ripper.” He was uneasily aware that he was not being entirely truthful with her.

“That is not what I meant,” she snapped, whirling away from him. She marched from the kitchen and he heard a door slam.

Fool! He cursed himself and went to tap on the closed door of what he assumed was her bedroom. “Grell,” he called. “I’m sorry. Of course, I believe you.”

The door opened; she stood before him, clad in her trousers and shirt, buttoning her waistcoat. “Oh William! You make me so angry sometimes.” Still glaring at him in the mirror, she fixed her cuffs and sleeve garters.

“I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” Why was it, outside the office, he always felt at a loss? Always felt in the wrong? Always felt like the nervous boy, quailing under his grandmother’s disapproving gaze? His hand automatically went to his empty breast pocket.

She sniffed and tied her neck ribbon, donned her coat and shook out her hair and became, once again, the bold scarlet reaper as she smiled wolfishly at him. “Do come on, dear. I’m suddenly quite anxious to see dearest Bassy.” She took his arm and opened a portal.

Grell really was a superb actress, he reflected, while they stood before the Phantomhive townhouse. Only a tiny bead of blood where she had gnawed her lip gave away her agitation. He had offended her deeply and wondered how to make amends; forgotten, lulled by the quiet charm of her home, the hot temper and recklessness that had driven him almost to madness for close to a century.

She was giggling as she knocked at the door. “I’m sorry, dear, but you must admit that it is too funny—the idea of the pair of us paying a call on Sebastian.”

Under other circumstances, he might have found it amusing, but her eyes were glittering dangerously. He puffed his cheeks in exasperation. “Honestly Grell! Have you no idea of the peril you face at the moment? Do you know what will happen to you if you cannot be cleared?”

“Demotion?” she sneered. “Will I be forced to reap with a cigar cutter or cheese knife?”

His stomach began to churn. Management had already mentioned termination and imprisonment—or execution. But the door opened before he could respond. Even he had to admit to a certain amount of pleasure at the sight of Sebastian’s evident surprise.

Grell cast a side-long glance at him, as if daring him to restrain her and hurled herself at the butler. “Bassy! Darling!” she cried. “At last. I have come to you!”

She crashed into the newel post at the foot of the stairs when he stepped aside and crumpled into a heap at his feet. “Oh my cruel love!” she moaned. “To summon me and treat me thus. To toy with a maiden’s heart so!”

The habits of ninety years could not be set easily aside. William’s Scythe appeared in his hand and he delivered a ringing blow to her head. Hauling her up by her hair, he hissed, “Grell! Stop making a fool of yourself and the Dispatch. You are embarrassing us both.” He turned to Sebastian. “I apologize for Agent Sutcliff’s behaviour.”

Seething with annoyance that he had been forced to apologize to the demon butler yet again, he glowered at Grell. Something flickered across her face; her lips quivered for an instant and she glared back at him with real hate in her eyes. Suddenly, he knew how Madam Red had felt in her last moment.

She had wrenched herself free of his grasp; her teeth were bared as her mouth curled into a truly frightening smile. William braced himself for the roar of her chainsaw when Ciel appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh! Little one!” she cried running to him. “Don’t you look sweet in your nightshirt?” She patted him on the head, laughing as he flinched from her touch. “Now that dear Sebastian has finally surrendered to our fate, we are practically family. You must think of me as a kindly stepmother.” She slid down the bannister and draped herself over Sebastian. “Dear William, could you put the child back to bed and read him a nice, _long_ story? Sebby and I need to be alone.”

“That is enough, Grell!” he thundered, uncomfortably aware the demon seemed to be repressing a smile. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close to himself. “If you persist in this ridiculous behaviour, I shall take you back to the Dispatch and have you disciplined.”

“Do you promise?” she purred, melting against him.

She was impossible! Infuriating! Maddening! Why was he endangering his reputation and career by associating with her? She would be the ruin of him. But a short time ago she had been nestled sweetly in his arms, returning his kisses with hungry fervour; she had drawn from him his most cherished memories and made him feel safe and contented for the first time since he was a boy. He glanced at her; saw the stubborn set of her jaw and desperate gleam in her eyes and knew that she hated this persona as much as he hated watching her engage in it.

“Michaelis,” he barked, anxious to get to the purpose of the visit, “you have asked to see Agent Sutcliff. Why?”

Sebastian ushered them into the drawing room. “May I offer you some refreshment?” he asked, ever the perfect butler. “A glass of brandy perhaps?”

William felt his stomach clench; his mouth filled with saliva. Just a small one . . . “No, thank you,” he managed to reply.

“Her Majesty has asked my young master to look into the recent murders in London. The authorities have managed to keep the details very quiet. No one wants talk that Jack the Ripper is on the prowl again.”

He tightened his hand around Grell’s arm, silently begging her to restrain herself. “The Dispatch is aware and is also investigating,” he said.

“I am of the opinion that they were not killed by a weapon of human manufacture. The police will release the latest victim to Undertaker tomorrow. My young master and I would consider it a favour if you were to inspect the remains.” He bent close to Grell, his lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “You are something of an expert in the modification of Death Scythes. Perhaps you might shed some light on the matter.”

“You want me to examine the body? How grisly!” she tittered nervously.

“Why not?” Ciel drawled. “What’s one more butchered prostitute to the likes of you?”

She smiled sweetly, but William could feel her tense. “Or to you? You let Mary Jane Kelly go to her death.”

“You believe they were killed with a Death Scythe?” William asked, his heart sinking. Grell could not be involved in this investigation. “Might it not be some sort of demon weapon?”

“It is a possibility, but you, Grell, are very well acquainted with Death Scythes. I am hoping that you might be able to recognize if this was the means used.”

“Goodness!” she replied. “I am not sure if I possess that kind of knowledge, but I know someone who does.”

“I am reluctant to bring someone else in on this,” William said, “but Mr Deeds does have the expertise required. Perhaps, I could bring him to Undertaker’s tomorrow. There is no need for Grell to be there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Dearest Bassy has asked _me_ to look at the body. He knows I can’t refuse him anything.” She fluttered her eyelashes wildly at him. “But we should bring Mr Deeds along and, since he is retired, there is no need to involve the office immediately,” she insisted.

“Then we shall visit Undertaker’s tomorrow morning,” he said abruptly. “Come along, Grell. We shall see ourselves out.”

“Yes dear,” she giggled. “Bye-bye Sebby.” She blew a kiss at him. “Lovely to see you again.”

He sighed with relief as they stood on the steps of the townhouse, glad to have the encounter over with. Grell was scowling at him, her hands planted on her hips. “Isn’t there something you need to say?” she demanded.

There was much he needed to say. There would be no keeping her from Undertaker’s shop the following day, he knew. “I—I’m sorry I struck you,” he stammered. “And I’m sorry I pulled you up by your hair and threatened you with punishment in front of them. I don’t understand you!” he cried. “You crawl all over that demon. You bait him and the boy and _me_ and let them ridicule you. You make yourself into an object of fun. Why?”

“Come on,” she said abruptly. “There’s something you need to see.” She leapt to the roof in a blur of scarlet.

William followed her as she travelled east, leaving behind the elegant townhouses of the rich and titled. It was only a few minutes’ journey, just over two miles, but an entirely different world. She led him to a ramshackle establishment that resembled a run-down coffee house.

“Grell! We can’t stroll into a public house together.”

“Don’t worry dear,” she said with a smile. “No one will care. Even _I_ won’t attract that much attention.”

The place was crowded and smoky and noisy and every single customer was male. Men in working clothes, dandies in fine suits and gentlemen in evening attire laughed, drank and danced with partners wearing gowns of every description. Here, a bewigged and painted Marie Antoinette sported with two men in naval uniforms; there, a gypsy queen with flowing raven locks and arms tinkling with gold bracelets danced for an elderly man dressed as a clerk and on the stage at the back of the room a man in a blue velvet gown bent over a chair as another approached him.

Grell grinned when William turned his head away. “I was the star attraction at a very similar establishment for a number of years.”

Why was she showing him this? He could feel insolent, painted eyes staring at him; sense the rouged lips of many laughing at him. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.

“In a moment.” She pushed her way through the crowd to a door near the back. William trailed her, sickened by the stench and dizzy from the smoke and liquor fumes.

The door opened into a tiny alley. He could just make out a couple, heaving and grunting in the shadows and a figure, dressed in a pink satin gown, wearing a coarse blonde wig.

“Looking for some company, love?”

“Not tonight, dear,” Grell replied.

“’Tis a thirsty night.”

“It is,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “Have a drink on me.”

She walked away quickly, her head bent and hands jammed into her coat pockets. William hurried after her and seized her roughly by the arm. “I’ve had enough. We’re going back home.” He quickly opened a portal and pulled her through before she could protest.

“What was the purpose of taking me to a place like that?” he shouted when they were back at his apartment.

“You asked why let myself become a figure of fun. Because I’ve never been anything else. Even when I was small—the Vicar’s odd little child, who was found dancing around the garden in a dress from the missionary box. They might laugh at me, they might shun me on the street, but, for a few minutes, on that stage or in a private room in the back, they wanted me,” she hissed. “You want to understand me? _That_ is what I was. My speciality was a re-enactment of The Rape of the Sabine Women.”

William scrambled frantically through the drawers in his kitchen until he found a flask, shook it and, with a sigh of relief, twisted off the cap and drained it in a single swallow. “That’s revolting,” he said hoarsely.

“It was. And there was always a newer girl or younger girl. Eventually, I ran out of tricks to entice them. Some place like that alley out back would have been next, so I made sure that could never happen.”

“Are you saying you ended your life because you were no longer the star of that sordid spectacle?”

“Yes,” she cried. “Before I ended out like that poor creature! Before the gin or disease or an unsatisfied customer did it. She won’t last long. None of us did and there is no one to care. Even the Ripper’s victims got some sympathy, but no one cares about people like us. They laugh!”

William rubbed his faced tiredly. “I wish I knew what to say,” he finally answered. “I am deeply sorry that your human life was so . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Degrading?” she suggested. “Nauseating?”

“Yes.” He should put his arms around her, comfort her and tell her it didn’t matter. She was glaring defiantly at him, but her teeth were worrying her lower lip. Was that why she had been so ruthless in her slaughter of those women? Little or no mercy was ever shown to her kind. Had she delighted in painting their faces in a twisted parody of her former companions? He didn’t need to ask.

“I should go,” she mumbled.

She was staring at him, silently pleading with him to beg her to stay, but he couldn’t. “Grell,” he said at last, “I’m sorry I can’t say what you need to hear.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, too.” Tossing her hair, she asked briskly, “Will you meet Ezra and me at my house tomorrow? The poor dear hasn’t been to the human world in over a century. He might find it a little overwhelming.”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll be off,” she said and walked out of his apartment.

XXXXXXXXXX

He slept in fitful starts and snatches all night, his slumber punctuated by ghastly dreams, all featuring Grell. Grell, dripping with blood and shrieking with glee as she swooped her chainsaw down into the vitals of the figure lying before her. Grell, sinuous as a cat, crawling naked across the stage, calling to him, “Come here, William. You know you want it.” Grell, in shackles, being dragged to the execution chamber, crying out to him to save her.

He was still in his clothes from the night before; an empty bottle rolled about his feet. Feeling dizzy and sick, he hauled himself to his feet, made his way to the bathroom and stood under the icy needles of a punishingly cold shower. He ached all over. The remainder of the previous night was a blur—a smudged memory of hurrying down the street with a vague notion of catching up with Grell and begging her . . .

To do what? Forgive him for his inability to understand? To erase the grotesque images that haunted him? To hold him close and let him find forgetfulness in her arms? But his courage had failed and he had returned home with a bottle to find another sort of oblivion.

In spite of the shower and fresh clothes, he felt sticky and sweaty by the time he reached the office and unable to reply to anyone with more than a grunt.

“Boss doesn’t look too good,” he heard Ronald say as he passed the break room.

“Haven’t you heard?” said another voice. “He’s got a bad case of scarlet fever.”

William fled to his office and sank into his chair, massaging his forehead with his fingertips. Somehow, it had gotten out. Someone must have seen him at Grell’s door. Had she let something slip? He couldn’t restrain a groan of frustration. He would have to remove himself from the investigation.

But their visit to Undertaker was off the record. He would make a full report on his return and accept whatever discipline he was given. He owed that much to Grell.

The office was buzzing like a beehive. How much longer before the gossip reached upstairs? A few hours at best. Gathering up an enormous stack of papers, he strode from his office.

“I have to step out for an hour or two,” he said scowling at the assorted reapers and secretaries. “Since you lot seem to have no real work to do, here are a few things to keep you busy.” He distributed thick folders to all the secretaries. “These need to be retyped in triplicate and new files made. Use the approved folders in the supply room.” He shoved a huge pile of paper at Ronald. “Knox, these are the Dispatch’s Annual Reports for the past fifty years. Make twenty-five copies of each.”

Ronald nodded sheepishly and fled as William turned to Lucas. “Pull all expense claims for the past five years and sort them. Be sure all receipts are still attached. And you, Stephen,” he turned his attention to the newest member of the Dispatch, just returned from his injury, “can make a complete inventory of all supplies in the break room. I am not signing off on another order until I know precisely what we have.”

He glared at them all. “I expect to see this all completed by the end of the day or you will all be working overtime until it is done.”

By the time he reached Grell’s house, the pounding in his head had lessened slightly, but his stomach was roiling at the thought of facing her. He still had not told her . . . He had lost the opportunity to persuade her to remain in the realm. She and Mr Deeds were waiting in front.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “Doesn’t Ezra look dashing?”

“Haven’t been to town in ages. Thought I should dress for it.” He was wearing an ancient black frock coat and breeches and stockings with clocks. “You’re sure I don’t need a wig? It’s around somewhere.”

“No dear,” Grell smiled.

He crammed a battered tricorn hat on his head and took her arm to lead her through the portal William opened. They could hear voices in the shop when they arrived and waited in the back until Undertaker emerged.

He greeted Mr Deeds politely, nodded at William and crossed the room to take Grell’s hand. “My dear, I don’t think you should be here. Why did you bring her?” he added, shooting a venomous glance in William’s direction.

“Michaelis asked her to examine the remains. Even _you_ know there would be no stopping her.” He stared desperately at him. Grell was fond of the old reaper. Maybe he could influence her, restrain her.

“Stop talking about me as if I weren’t here,” she complained. “Sebby wants to know if there is any chance the murders were committed with a Death Scythe. I do know something about that,” she said with a menacing smile.

“It wouldn’t be suitable, given the circumstances. Why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea and you and I will sit together and gossip while William and Ezra look at the bodies?”

“Bodies?” William asked.

“Yes, the police just delivered another victim. It happened late last night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Grell snorted. “I’m not going to sit here drinking tea.” She pushed past them to the front of the shop.

“You said nothing to her?” Undertaker wondered.

“I had hoped she would not have to know,” William answered as they followed her.

Grell was standing over the open coffin, white-faced. “How could you have not told me?” she asked in a strangled whisper. “Either of you?”

“My dear,” Undertaker said, putting his arm around her, “I did not believe William would allow you to come here . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly at the look of scorn she directed at him.

William cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “If you had known the victims are not, if fact, female, you would have gone mad. There would have been no restraining you. I should have found some way to tell you before we came here.” He fixed his gaze on her face. “Grell, I am deeply sorry. I have handled this very poorly.”

A drop of blood trickled down her chin from where she had bitten her lip. “Let’s take a look at the other one. It can’t possibly be worse.”

It was. William’s already queasy stomach revolted and he rushed to the back. He heaved over the bowl for several minutes before rinsing his mouth and splashing his face with cold water. The blonde wig was gone, but the pink dress was still recognizable. “My apologies,” he muttered on his return to the front.

“I don’t blame you,” she said, but her voice was hard. “It is quite sickening.”

“Quite,” Mr Deeds said, bending over the corpse. He blanched at the grotesque, gaping wound in the groin. Even Undertaker looked slightly nauseous. “I can say, with some certainty, that these crimes were committed with a Death Scythe,” he said. “But the wounds are not consistent with Grell’s.”

“I suppose that is good news for me,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” William replied, “but it means we have a murderer at loose in the Dispatch.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be one very long chapter. I split it into two shortish chapters instead.

“Don’t you mean _another_ murderer?” Grell asked silkily when they arrived back at her house.

“Grell,” he said softly, for fear of being overheard by Mr Deeds, “I must speak with you privately. Will you come to my apartment tonight, after your shift?”

She stared at him. He looked away first. “Very well. I’ll be at the office shortly. Just give me a little time to see to Mr Deeds. The poor dear is a bit worn out.”

Upon his return to the office, he found a massive pile of papers on his desk. Impatiently, he swept them all to the floor and fled to the Library. He returned an hour later, shaken by the Record he had viewed, but cowered in his office when he heard Grell’s voice until she had departed for her collections. She had been paired with young Stephen for the shift; sparing her Lucas’s oily presence was the least he could do.

It couldn’t be avoided any longer. He called upstairs and shortly found himself facing three members of Senior Management.

Adjusting his glasses nervously, he said, “I must report that I have entered into a personal relationship with an agent under my supervision.”

Why did they look like they were all attempting to hide their smiles? “With whom?” Assistant Director Edwardes asked.

“Agent Sutcliff.” He hurried to add, “I am aware that Agent Sutcliff is currently a suspect in an investigation I have been conducting. I shall remove myself from this inquiry immediately. But there is more.” He told them of their visit to Undertaker’s that morning. “I have acted outside of approved procedures and will accept whatever discipline you deem necessary, but I would ask that Agent Sutcliff not be punished. She is understandably anxious to clear herself and disobeyed regulations to that end.”

“William,” Branch Director Matthews sighed, “please stop pretending you are made of stone. You are not the first Supervisor to take up with a subordinate.”

“I’ll say,” another interrupted. This was Special Supervisor Ethan Walters. “Remember that fellow in the branch in Rome?”

All three burst out laughing. “Had a girl in every department.”

William cleared his throat. “Mr Deeds will forward a full report and he is willing to testify, if necessary, but he seems quite convinced that Agent Sutcliff’s Death Scythe is not the murder weapon.”

They became serious again. “This must not leave this room, but Grell Sutcliff has never been a serious suspect in this case, given the nature of the victims,” the Branch Director said. “Undertaker himself had advised us, upon examination of the first bodies, that a Death Scythe was the probable weapon. We have allowed the Dispatch to believe that Agent Sutcliff was under suspicion in the hope that the killer might betray himself.”

That wily old bastard, William seethed. He had known all along. “Was that not a little unfair to Grell?” he dared to ask.

“Perhaps, but given Sutcliff’s past conduct . . .”

He could feel himself becoming flushed with anger. How dare they? With great difficulty, he kept his voice steady and tone polite. “May I, at least, inform Agent Sutcliff privately, that she is no longer a suspect? She has gone to great lengths to improve her behaviour in the past months, but she can be rash and reckless. The strain might make her do something foolish.”

They no longer restrained their grins. “You may,” answered Edwardes, “but please exercise whatever influence you have to make Agent Sutcliff stay quiet for the time being.”

He was sure he heard Walters mutter, “Spears is a brave man,” as he left the office, but he was shaking with relief—and rage. How could they have treated Grell so? Let her believe she was a suspect? Whatever his feelings—past or present—he would never have behaved thus. Except he had. Treated her like an afterthought, a being with no feelings to hurt. Especially last night.

He knew what it was to be considered, at best, an inconvenience as his mother’s letters grew shorter and scarcer, apologizing that she simply hadn’t the time to make a trip to his school during a brief visit to England. Knew what it was to be unwanted, disliked and despised.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Honestly William! Sit up straight. You weren’t raised in a barn.”

“Honestly William! Must you always be so sullen and gloomy?”

“Honestly William! Don’t make such a fuss. It was just a box of cheap trinkets and other trash.”

But it had contained souvenirs of his visits to London: pretty stones and feathers, a lucky penny he had found and a handkerchief that had belonged to his father and, at the bottom, letters from Nana Spears.

For the first and only time, he lost his temper with his grandmother. “You had no right to touch my things, to throw them out!” he had shouted. “I hate you!”

“How dare you?” she screeched. Her nails left deep crescents as she took his arm in an iron grip. “You ungrateful creature!”

She had said a great deal more—ugly words that still hurt to recall. She heaped abuse on the gentle father he could scarcely remember and cursed the day he had been born. But when she turned her scorn on his Nana, he lost all control.

Shaking her off violently, he hissed at her, “I wish you had died instead!”

He had no memory of what had happened next, only a dim recollection of days in a dark room, resolutely not begging to be released no matter how hungry or thirsty he was. He returned to school thin and weak, silent and forbidding, and counting the days until he would be of age and could escape her venomous influence.

Salvation had come in his last months of school by way of a small inheritance from his mother. William could not feel any real grief over her death, but he was grateful she had provided him with the means to leave his grandmother’s house. He moved to London, gained employment as a clerk and even became friends with a few young, bookish men like himself.

It was a new life and a new world. Lively discussions about politics and books late into the night with his new friends. He heard Wilberforce speak on the abolition of the slave trade and engaged in debates about the events in France. His rooms were small and shabby, but he wouldn’t have traded them for apartments in Windsor Castle. London was noisy and smelly and dirty and _alive_ and he embraced every day with an eagerness he hadn’t felt since his visits as a child—vibrant sights and sounds and exciting and intriguing people everywhere he turned. Even in the small house where he rented rooms—an odd, redheaded young man he assumed to be an actor, given his extraordinary clothing and hours he kept. They had never exchanged more than a murmured greeting when they passed one another on the stairs—something he regretted, having hoped to make his acquaintance to discuss theatre and the latest plays.

His employer had a pretty, soft-spoken niece, with whom he occasionally walked along the river, but, just as he began to wonder if he might develop warm feelings for the young woman, his grandmother had a stroke. William found the ties of duty were stronger than he had believed; he might have abandoned the old woman to her own devices, but could not turn his back on the tenants and few servants that had survived his grandmother’s rule and returned to the bleak, mouldering house of his childhood.

Illness had made her tongue more acidic and her moods and self-importance even worse. He took grim pleasure in confiscating most of her jewellery and selling it to pay off the worst of the debts of the almost bankrupt holding.

“Honestly Grandmother!” he sneered. “Such a fuss over a few trinkets. The bailiffs are practically at the door. If you’d prefer to end your days in the poorhouse, I shall return to London.”

He was shocked by the condition of the house and the accounts. Through ruthless economy and the sale of two ugly, but surprisingly valuable, paintings, he satisfied the creditors and was able to keep the house and land. His contact with his grandmother, however, he kept to a minimum—seeing her only at a dinnertime made bearable by a bottle of wine, before fleeing to his rooms to read and sip brandy to ward off the ever-present chill of the house.

He couldn’t bring himself to wish for her death, but the years slipped away and he became more solitary, sterner and joyless, trapped in a house he hated with a woman who despised him. And then, unlooked for, love found him—in a most unexpected form.

XXXXXXXXXX

He had to find a way to make amends to Grell, not only for his behaviour of the previous night, but for his thoughtlessness in not preparing her for what she saw that morning. Words, except for those meant to wound—learned from his grandmother, did not come easily to him. Grell had opened her home to him, offered him comfort, both physical and spiritual; he could do no less for her.

With that in mind, he made a visit to the shops on his way home and set to work. Although he rarely bothered preparing a meal for himself, he was not unable to cook and gave some thought to what she might enjoy. Tapping his breast pocket anxiously, he glanced at the clock and had just finished setting the table, when he heard a knock at the door.

She looked pale and weary and greeted him quietly.

“You seem tired,” he said, taking her coat. “Did you have any difficulty with your collections?”

“Not really,” she insisted, but refused to meet his eyes.

“I don’t have anything to offer you, but tea or coffee, but I prepared us a supper.” He gestured at the table. “Will you stay and eat with me?”

He followed her gaze, looked at the newly-purchased red place mats and napkins and vase of scarlet tulips, watched her hands grip the back of a chair and saw her shoulders begin to shake.

“Damn you, William,” she muttered. “How can I pretend to be as cold and unfeeling and heartless as you when you do something like this?”

He took her face between his hands. “Grell,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry.” His lips brushed against her forehead. “I was cruel and thoughtless. I should not have hidden the truth from you and my behaviour last night was unpardonable.”

She crumpled against his chest and allowed him to cradle her head, His fingers entangled themselves in her hair. He could feel his shirtfront become wet with her tears. “I look dreadful when I cry,” she sniffled.

Raising her chin to look at him, he produced a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “No, you don’t. Just a little waterlogged.” He held the square of linen against her nose. “Now blow.”

She pocketed the handkerchief and regarded the table again. “It’s lovely,” she said, “and the dinner smells wonderful.” But she could only peck at the fish pie and peas he served her. “It’s delicious, but I haven’t much appetite today.”

“Neither do I.” He pushed away his own almost untouched plate. “There are far too many things occupying my thoughts to be concerned with food.” He led her from the table to his sitting area. “I’ll make us some coffee. Then there are a number of things I must talk to you about.”

He fussed about the kitchen longer than necessary. From the corner of his eye he could see Grell perched on the edge of his couch, nervously inspecting her nails and prayed that, for once, he could find the words he needed.

“I’m a little worried about Stephen,” she called out to him. “How did he manage to pass the final exam? He must have had a very good partner.”

“Actually, he was paired with Lucas.” Smiling at the face she made, he continued, “I know you don’t like him, but he is quite competent.”

“He is,” she said reluctantly, “but there’s something about him. Something I don’t quite trust.”

William felt an uncomfortable prickle up his spine. An image of the gruesome corpses he had seen that morning flashed before him. It bore further investigation, but first he needed to set Grell’s mind at rest. Placing their mugs on the table, he took a seat next to her and took her hands in his.

“You may not be aware since you have spent so much time in the field lately, but some of the office have become aware of—of us.”

“I swear I haven’t said a word!” she exclaimed, snatching her hands away. “I’ve been very careful.” She began to pick at one of her nails, peeling off the polish in long strips.

She looked wary, abashed, frightened, as if fearing a scolding or a blow. The realization that he had earned this reaction by almost a century of scorn and smacks hit him like a punch in his gut and he faced the knowledge that he was no better than the poisonous old woman he had despised.

“I know you didn’t and it doesn’t matter,” he said urgently. “I have spoken to Management about it.”

“And what was their reaction?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They were remarkably—undisturbed by the news.” He saw no point in telling her how amused they seemed by the entire business.

“And what about the investigation?” She raised troubled eyes to his face. “I’ll be losing my only ally.”

William traced her jaw line. “You won’t. This must remain between us for the time being, but you are not a suspect. You never have been.” He told her quickly of his conversation with Management. “It was unfair and cruel to you, I know, but–”

She jerked her head away from him. “But I am a murderess and a monster. What are a few more bodies at my door?” she asked bitterly. “What does it matter that the rest of the office avoids me and runs for cover when I appear? Even Ronnie is beginning to look uneasy around me. I wouldn’t mind if they’d told me from the start.”

“You’ve been treated appallingly, I agree. And I am the worst culprit. I should have told you the truth about the victims as soon as I learned it.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“Will you believe me when I say I learned the truth only recently? A great effort is being made to keep the details as quiet as possible. I was going to tell you after we left the Phantomhive townhouse last night, I swear. I would not have let you walk into Undertaker’s unknowing had we not been—diverted.”

“I believe you,” she said, but her head was bowed. Her hair had fallen forward to hide her face and she was worrying her nail again.

“Look at me, Grell!” he pleaded. “As for last night, I _can’t_ say that it doesn’t matter. I can’t say that I am not sickened by what I saw, but who am I to judge how you lived?”

Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Are you saying you’re willing to overlook it? How gracious of you!” she spat.

“No!” he cried. “I ran out of here last night straight to the bottle. How can I blame you for the choices you made? I’m trying to come to terms with it. Will you give me a chance?”

“No.”

“I see.” He stared helplessly at his hands, resting in his lap.

“No, you don’t see. I am not prepared to go on as we are, to have you kiss me and know you are wondering how many other men I have kissed. Not that many, by the way. Kisses cost extra,” she said with a shrill laugh. “I am not willing to wait until you have overcome your scruples enough to make love to me. And if we ever get to that point, and I perform some act that revolts your puritanical little brain, then what? Believe me, I know plenty. I will not watch you sit about coming to terms with the idea that I have sunk to depths of depravity and practised perversions you cannot imagine and watch you wonder if you dare ask them of me.”

She had caught her lower lip between her teeth; a trickle of blood ran down her chin. William reached for his handkerchief, remembered he had given it to her earlier and, for the first time in his existence, knew what he had to say. “I cannot promise that such thoughts will never occur to me. How could I? But I can promise you one thing.” Without a thought, he caught the snowy white cuff of his shirt with his fingertips and dabbed away the blood on her chin. “I am not a man of great experience, but I will give you something that I believe you have never known. I will put your pleasure first.”

“Oh!” she whispered, capturing his hand and pressing her lips against his palm. Her other hand curled around his neck to draw his head down to hers.

“Will you stay? Will you allow me to try?” he murmured against her lips.

William traced a path of gentle kisses along the line of her jaw while he tugged at her striped neck ribbon and pulled it off. His fingers fumbled with her collar button, but, at last he bared her throat and buried his head in her neck. She smelled faintly of her favourite rose fragrance and lavender. Scents so familiar and comforting, so intoxicating and soothing to him.

Her hand was tangled in his hair, drawing his mouth across her neck. He could hear her soft sighs of contentment and feel the flutter of her pulse beneath his lips. Raising his head, he took her face between his hands and outlined her fine, sandy eyebrows with his lips before placing the tiniest, softest kisses he could manage along her hairline and gently pressing his mouth against her eyelids.

She was so sweetly flushed, her cheeks stained pink and he longed to make the rest of her grow rosy with passion, ached to see her translucent skin blush from his kisses. He captured her mouth and coaxed it open beneath his own. Her tongue reached out to touch his; he probed her mouth, careful of her teeth, glad of the necessity to go slowly, to take extraordinary care, to take possession of her with infinite gentleness.

He stood and pulled her to her feet. “I will go no further unless you wish,” he said quietly.

Her lips were quivering. “I’m frightened,” she muttered. “I’ve loved you for so long, wanted you for so many years. I disgusted and sickened you last night. They call me a freak and a monster and they’re right. What if I repulse you?”

The bold, unrepentant crimson reaper was trembling in his arms, her head bowed, afraid to look him in the eye. He recalled years of scorn, disdainful comments and blows and cursed again the venomous old crone who had curdled his own soul, made him unfit to love or be loved.

XXXXXXXXXX

“William,” the old woman wheezed, “why aren’t you dressed yet? The guests will be arriving any moment.”

“Honestly Grandmother,” he sneered, “I was attending to the accounts. These things have to be paid for somehow.”

It took very little to upset the uneasy armed truce that existed between them. Twice a year, he allowed her to host a dinner party for the local gentry and dreaded those dates more than any other on the calendar. Aside from the stultifying boredom of the event itself, he loathed the days of preparation, the extra work forced on their scanty household staff and resented the expense—saw no benefit in scrimping for weeks merely to support her deluded pretensions of grandeur. His only enjoyment was the grim pleasure he took in threatening to forbid the event.

He donned his shabby dress coat and breeches and inexpertly tied his cravat. The linen was yellowing and spotted, but he refused to waste the money to replace it. A stickpin, adorned with a dog’s head, his only possession that had belonged to his father, hid a wine stain. Grateful that the government’s duty on hair powder a few years earlier had rendered wigs and powdering almost obsolete, he adjusted his spectacles and went down to greet his unwelcome guests.

“There you are,” she grumbled when he finally appeared. “Honestly, must you look so seedy and down at heels? Just like your father. Anyone would think we were in the poorhouse,” she said with a viperish smile.

She leaned on an ivory-headed walking stick, a necessity since her stroke, and was resplendently gowned.

“We very nearly are,” he said smoothly as he poured himself a drink. “In fact, I have advised the dressmaker that she is to extend no more credit to you.” A malicious smile crossed his face; the slight against his father was avenged.

“But not the wine merchant,” she hissed.

Before he could reply, the guests began to arrive. He forced himself to be civil, to act the gracious host. He directed their ancient servant to pour drinks and made polite conversation until he her exclaim, “Sir Timothy! Lady Barnes! How lovely to see you! And you brought your son.”

He turned to the new arrivals and, in that instant, everything changed.

There had been, at his school, a few boys set apart from the rest, who seemed to move in a gleaming world of looks and privilege. As a lonely boy, he had entertained vague fantasies of being singled out by these gilded youths, of becoming one of their chosen companions. Of moving with ease among them to excite the envy and admiration of his classmates.

And standing before him, was one. Julian Barnes greeted him warmly, pretended he remembered him from school and, with a sidelong glance at the other guests, showed that he shared William’s opinion of the gathering.

For the first time, he was animated at the dinner table and was drawn into the discussion beyond meaningless pleasantries.

“William doesn’t want to raise the rents this year,” his grandmother complained. “Has some ridiculous notion that it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Why not?” one of the guests snorted. “The weather’s good. We should see a good harvest. No better time.”

“The past two winters were harsh,” he insisted, “and the harvest was poor last year due to the wet summer. The tenants are only just recovering.”

“Gracious!” Julian drawled. “Are we harbouring a republican in our midst?”

“Not at all,” he replied earnestly, “but we must take the lessons of the continent to heart. The people will not tolerate such treatment any longer and starving tenants make poor workers.”

“How admirable of you to hold such opinions,” he laughed.

William retreated into a confused silence for the rest of the evening until the guests were leaving. Julian drew him aside to whisper, “I was only teasing you.” He slept badly that night, cursing his awkwardness.

The following morning Julian appeared at the door.

“Grandmother is resting right now,” he told him.

“Don’t be silly,” he laughed. “I’ve come to see _you_.”

It was a sin. It was a hanging offence, but he was powerless to resist. Throughout that unusually warm summer, they met whenever possible. Even his grandmother approved of his sudden friendship with the scion of a locally prominent family. And William knew happiness for the first time in years.

Until they were caught.

Julian’s family whisked him to the continent, leaving William to bear the burden of blame and disgust and to face the weight of the law on his own.

His grandmother confronted him in his rooms as he waited dully for the inevitable.

“You should never have been born,” she snarled at him. “I told your mother she would regret marrying your father. You have brought shame and disgrace on this house.”

He refused to answer her, refused even to look at her—simply sat sipping his brandy until she placed an object on the table and left the room.

The old Queen Anne pistol had been cleaned and loaded. He could picture the baleful pleasure the old woman had probably taken in making it ready to give to him. And, taking a final swallow of his drink, he picked it up and left the house he hated forever.


	5. Chapter 5

“Grell,” he said, tipping her chin up so he could see her face, “you are not a freak. You are fierce and unconventional. You are like no one I have ever known and I would not have you any other way. I cannot claim to understand you fully, but I believe I am learning.”

“You do? How?”

“You killed those women at Madam Red’s side because they rejected what you could never have. You were brutal in your slaughter because they were what you could never be. It maddened you and Angelina used your fury to feed her own madness.”

She jerked her head away. “How dare you speak of Madam Red like that?” she spat.

“Because it’s the truth. I viewed her Record today. She was twisted with jealousy and rage.” He held her firmly by her shoulders. “And you recognized it. That’s why you killed her.”

Shoving him away, she shouted, “You know nothing!”

“I know that Mary Jane Kelly was with child again when you killed her. You discovered it at the time of her death when you saw her Cinematic Record. Angelina knew and let you do it. That was when she became no better than those women in your eyes.”

Grell turned very pale. “She went to Madam Red. She was horrified she’d fallen pregnant again so soon,” she muttered. “I didn’t know until—after. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known. She had to be stopped.”

“You let Sebastian and Ciel and _me_ believe you cut her down because she had become boring. You protected the boy from the knowledge that she was selfish, vengeful and vindictive.”

“She loved him. It was the last thing I could do for her.”

“You are _not_ the heartless monster you claim to be. Why did you not attempt to defend yourself when brought up for discipline?”

“Why did you not attempt to discover if there was more than you understood?” she cried. “No one asked! You all simply chose to believe the worst of me. All you had to do was examine Madam Red’s Cinematic Record and you would have learned the truth.”

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “Had it been any other agent, a more thorough investigation would have been made.” He gathered her into his arms. “I cannot change what was done, but I can humbly beg your pardon and I will see that your file is updated to reflect the truth of the matter.”

“But I did kill her and she wasn’t on the To Die list.”

“Honestly Grell! Do you think you are the first agent in the history of the Dispatch to have killed someone not on the To Die list? Ask your friend, Undertaker.”

“I think I will. In fact, I need to have a little chat with him,” she added with a menacing smile. “I wonder how much salt he has on hand right now.”

“I’m begging you. Don’t do anything rash. I know you are angry about how much has been withheld from you, but you cannot betray that you know the truth. The true killer must be found.”

“Of course,” she mocked. “We must put the interests of the Dispatch first.”

“In this instance, yes.” He adjusted his glasses. “You have accused me of not understanding you. I might say the same. I am devoted to my work. I cannot change that and I would not care to. Can you understand that?”

She nodded slowly.

“And there is something else. I’m stuffy and dull, I know. I often will not be able to say the things you want to hear. Can you listen to my silence and know that the words are in my heart?”

“I can try,” she said softly.

He kissed her again, very gently, delicately outlining her mouth, tracing the shape of her lips with his tongue. Her skin was like porcelain, faintly tinted with pink, but soft and warm to his touch. Her eyelids, thick and creamy, drooped languorously over her eyes. They shared the same eye colour, but he knew his eyes were flinty and stern while hers revealed a kaleidoscope of emotion—could glitter with rage, dance with joy or glow with happiness.

Was she beautiful? He supposed not. The planes and angles of her face were too sharply defined, but she was infinitely alluring to him. She possessed a charm beyond mere beauty that held him rapt. A witchery he had ruthlessly rejected for ninety years. But now, the lure of her siren’s call was as powerful as the spell that had been cast upon him by the whimsical redheaded child he had encountered over a century earlier.

He took her hand and led her to his bedroom.

“Well, it’s not quite the monk’s cell I imagined,” she smiled. “I’m slightly relieved to see that you have a proper bed. I half-expected that you slept on a cot.”

It was plain and spare and functional, like everything else in his life. She was prowling around, peeking in his closet and giggling at his suits and shirts hung up with military precision. “Why do I suspect that all of your underwear is folded into perfect squares?” she laughed. “And I’ll bet you never have an odd sock in your drawer.” She wound her arms around his neck. “But I shouldn’t tease you, darling.”

“You know, you’re the only one who ever has. Since we came to this world, you are the only person who has refused to believe that I am anything except gloomy, rigid and utterly dull.” He opened her waistcoat buttons one at a time and pushed it from her shoulders to fall to the ground.

Grell loosened his tie and pulled it off. “If you knew how many times over the years I wanted to do that. To see you without your tie, without your shirt buttoned up.” She plucked at his buttons and slipped her hands inside his shirt.

He shivered at the touch of her hands on his skin. Her nails were scratching delicately along his back. Gentle ripples of pleasure coursed through him as he captured her mouth. She returned his kisses eagerly. He could feel the velvet of her tongue stroking his own, could feel the softness of her lips and taste her sweetness.

His lips sought the column of her neck and he drew her closer, tangling his hand in the wild mass of her hair while he opened her shirt with his other. Her skin was so soft and so smooth, he thought dizzily. He heard her gasp softly when his finger brushed across her nipple, raising it to a tight peak and knew he needed to see her completely.

William nudged her gently until she sat on the edge of the bed and, with infinite care, unfastened her sleeve garters, placing them on the night table, before opening her cuffs. Kneeling before her, he untied her shoes and pulled them off before drawing off her socks. Her feet were long and slender and high-arched; he smiled at the sight of the red polish on her toes.

“What’s so funny about my feet?” she queried sharply. “I know they’re too big, but–” She jerked her foot from his grasp and he saw the uncertainty in her face.

Suddenly, he wondered how often her partners in the past had shown revulsion when confronted by her true form. “They’re lovely,” he insisted, “like the rest of you.” He twined his fingers with hers and, with his other hand, took a lock of her hair and wrapped it around their wrists. Pushing her back onto the bed, he buried his face beneath her ear. The hollow of her throat haunted him; he breathed deeply of her fragrance as he trailed kisses along her neck. Pressing his lips against her collar bone, he swept his hand across her torso.

She was slimmer than he had imagined for he knew her to be immensely strong and revelled in the way his hands could cover so much of her willowy frame. Her nipples were palest pink that darkened to a rosy blush when he suckled on them. He could feel her hands in his hair and hear her soft moans as his lips travelled across her chest and down her belly until he reached the waistband of her trousers. Slowly, he unbuttoned her flies. She lifted her hips to help him draw them off and wrapped her legs around him.

He rested his head against her thighs for an instant. Grell was fully aroused, he could see, straining against her undergarment that bound her cruelly tight. It had to be painful, even when she was flaccid, he thought with a sudden rush of compassion and realized how desperately she fought to make her form fit her nature, thought of the unkindness she had endured from him and others when they treated it as a freakish whim. Gently, he peeled down the constricting garment and saw the angry weals that marred her fair skin. He pressed his lips against the marks on her hips, rubbed his thumbs against the livid red stripes that circled her thighs and belly and, finally, smoothed his hand along her length.

She caught her breath, but went rigid. She was staring anxiously at him. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m . . . all wrong?” she whispered. “You’re not disappointed that I am not a true female?”

“You _are_ a true female,” he said quietly, “with a form that is yours alone.”

The dark red curls at the base were springy and crisp to his touch, but she was velvet soft and his head was filled with the musk of her arousal as she rocked in time with the movement of his hand, wrapped around her. She had tipped her head back; her hair streamed about her, but her eyes were fixed on his face.

“Please, not too soon. Let me see you as well,” she begged, pushing his shirt from his shoulders.

He stood, allowing her to unbutton his flies and tug his trousers down. Stepping from them, he drew off his socks.

“Oh William!” she sighed. “You’re beautiful.”

Looking into her shining eyes, he was inexpressibly moved. He had never considered himself a handsome man; he knew his features were regular and his Shinigami form was lean and fit and strong, but he believed he lacked the appeal of someone like Ronald or the dark, good looks of Sebastian or even the mysterious charm of Undertaker. But beneath Grell’s gaze he felt worthy of the word, felt like more than the thin, pale, solemn boy who was overlooked, ignored and despised.

Her fingers caught the waistband of his drawers and pulled them down impatiently. He shuddered at her touch and gasped when her tongue snaked out to taste him. With slow, lapping strokes, she licked at him, tormenting him and teasing him with quick darts of her tongue until her mouth closed around him. He groaned, surrounded by moist heat and gentle suction, felt his passion rise until he carefully pulled himself away.

“I told you,” he said hoarsely, “I haven’t much experience and this entire existence has been devoted to my work. I might not be able . . . ” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Are you saying you might not have much staying power?” she asked with a smile.

He nodded sheepishly.

“My dearest,” she murmured, “it doesn’t matter. We have centuries, possibly an eternity. What we have right now is perfect.”

And for the first time, he was glad to have been sentenced to centuries of penance, rejoiced that he and Grell had endless time to discover one another, that the adventure the redheaded child of his youth had promised might be limitless.

He scooped her into his arms and laid her onto the bed, stretching out at her side. She traced his features with her fingertips, outlining his lips with her thumb. “Perfect,” she repeated as his hand closed around her again. Gently thumbing away the bead of moisture at the tip of her arousal, he began to move his hand while his other cradled her head.

She drew his leg over her hip, pressed herself closer and sought his mouth. William could taste his own blood as her teeth grazed him slightly, but kissed her deeply, probing her mouth with his tongue. Her soft sighs and moans filled his ears as she moved faster in his hand. They were becoming slick with sweat. His own hardness slipped against her belly, but he forced himself to concentrate on her pleasure, determined to give her joy before he found his own.

Grell’s pale skin was flushed with passion. He lifted his head from hers, wanting to watch her attain her peak. Her pulse fluttered wildly under the translucent flesh of her neck, she was dewy with sweat in the subdued light of the room. Her hair furled out like a scarlet banner against his white sheets. She pulsed and throbbed and he felt his hand grow wet as she cried out softly. Folding her into his arms, he held her close until her tremors subsided, raining gentle kisses on her hair and face.

Finally, she fell away from him. “Oh my darling,” she sighed, “that was more than I ever dreamed.”

Her lips traced a fiery trail of kisses across his chest and down his belly, leaving a trail of moisture that prickled when it cooled. He felt her tongue, flickering against the tiny, sensitive ridge at the head of his arousal and could not restrain a groan as she circled him slowly. Grell was like nothing he had known in his former, brief experiences of the flesh. She consumed him completely and delighted him utterly until he was shaking from head to foot.

He was powerless, unable to do anything but surrender himself to the rapture she gave, borne up, helpless, by the waves of sensation that washed over him. He was panting harshly, his hands were clawing the sheets as she brought him to the edge, held back until he subsided and caught him up again in a rising tide of passion. The pleasure pooled unbearably in his loins, his heart was hammering, his blood coursed through him; he was incoherent with bliss and, with a hoarse cry, he abandoned himself to her wholly.

“To think I denied this for ninety years,” he murmured after he caught his breath. “Can you stay? I have to rise early tomorrow, but you are on the afternoon shift.”

She nodded. “Just let me clean myself up a bit.”

Climbing from the bed, she disappeared into his bathroom and returned a few minutes later, her face scrubbed clean and her hair fastened into a braid. “I love you, darling,” she grinned, “but I don’t want you sleeping on my hair.”

He reached out and plucked her glasses from her nose to place on the night stand. She looked so much younger and softer without make-up, her nose wrinkled adorably as she squinted at him. Turning off the light, he pillowed her head on his shoulder. “Will you come tomorrow, after your shift?” he asked. “I promise that, from now on, I will keep you completely informed as to the progress in London when we are alone.”

“Is there nothing I can do to help? Perhaps we could approach Management and devise a plan to flush him out.”

“I will suggest it, but you must promise me you will do nothing rash. That you will not attempt to take matters into your own hands. Management has been surprisingly understanding about us. Don’t give them any reason to be otherwise.”

“All right,” she murmured sleepily. “They might decide to transfer one of us to Australia. Heaven forbid!”

Her breathing was growing slower and deeper. William could just make out her profile in the darkness and waited until she was asleep before slipping off his own spectacles and holding her closer until slumber claimed him also.

XXXXXXXXXX

For the first time in many years, William was late arriving to work. He had reached for Grell in the early hours and they had found boundless joy in each other. A shared shower that morning had made him careless of the time. All eyes were on him as he made his way to his office, but no one said a word. He could feel his ears burning and imagined the storm of gossip and speculation about him and Grell. Honestly! Didn’t they have any work to do?

But his office was not empty when he entered. Three burly security officers, Branch Director Matthews and the others from his meeting the day before were waiting inside.

“Spears,” Matthews said, “please surrender your Death Scythe.”

“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “What is going on?”

“Your Death Scythe, please,” said the largest of the officers, holding out his hand. The others were fingering batons hanging from their waists.

Dumbly, he produced it and handed it over.

“William,” Edwardes said, “I’m sorry. We had hoped to do this before the day shift arrived.”

“I don’t understand. You assured me yesterday that my—my relationship with Agent Sutcliff would not be an issue. Am I being disciplined? I know I acted outside of regulations on several counts.” He stared about desperately. “Why is Security here? I will accept any punishment without complaint.”

The Branch Manager spoke again. “Your relationship with Sutcliff is of no import, but your activities concerning the investigation are. You are being placed under arrest for the murders in London.”

William put up no resistance when he was handcuffed and led from the office under the shocked gazes of his subordinates. He said nothing in a bid to clear himself, attempted no defence. Merely travelled the short distance to the Administration building in silence and walked into the holding cell without protest. And, when he was left alone, sank to the floor, buried his head in his hands and grieved that again he had found happiness, only to have it snatched away, that he had so briefly found love. And that his deepest regret was that he had not told Grell that he loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been some who claim that Mary Jane Kelly was pregnant when she was killed by Jack the Ripper.


	6. Chapter 6

Not even the prospect of being paired with Lucas could spoil her happiness, Grell thought, strolling into the Dispatch.

“Good afternoon,” she sang out, before disappearing into her own office.

No one had returned her greeting, In fact, they all seemed to be staring quite oddly at her. With a shrug, she settled at her desk and tipped her head back, lost in a dreamy haze. She felt a distinct thrum in her loins and smiled to herself. William was inexperienced, a little awkward at times and unpractised, but he had shown such gentleness and tenderness. Soon, he should slip into her office with her collection schedule. She shivered; she would behave in the office, but there could be no harm in a snatched kiss or quick caress.

Twenty minutes later, she was drumming her nails impatiently on her desk. Then she noticed the file with that shift’s collections sitting in her inbox. Discretion was all very well, but if he was planning to ignore her in the office, she intended to make him very sorry.

Snatching up a few loose papers, she marched out and rapped on his door. Why was everyone staring at her? Even if word about them had gotten out, she still had a job to do and had every right to speak to him. She knocked again.

“William’s not here,” Lucas said.

“Obviously,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “How long has he been out? When will he be back?”

Ronald had just strolled in from the break room and rushed to her side. “Senpai–”

“William has been placed under arrest.”

“Lucas! What a horrid joke to make! Where is he?”

“Senpai,” Ronald said gently, putting his arm around her, “it’s true. He is being charged with the murders in London.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she shouted, shrugging off his arm. “Don’t you people have anything better to do than start absurd rumours?”

Lucas stood before her, grinning nastily. “It _is_ the truth. He was taken out in handcuffs this morning. The entire office saw it.”

Grell flung him aside with as much force as she could. A high-pitched buzz filled her head. “You needn’t look so bloody pleased about it!” she shrieked. Her Death Scythe appeared; she was shaking with a rage such as she hadn’t felt since the night she killed Madam Red. “And what have the rest of you been doing?” she screeched. “Standing about and gossiping! Has no one tried to find out where he is? Has no one gone to Management?” She glared at the assembled reapers and secretaries, panting with fury. “You all make me sick!” she shouted, storming out of the office.

Her head pounding, she rushed up the stairs to the Management floor, charged past the clerks and assistants and flung open the door of the Branch Director’s office with such force that the name plate fell to the floor.

“Do not call for Security,” she said silkily, holding her Scythe against his throat. “They will not arrive in time.”

“Agent Sutcliff,” Matthews squeaked, leaning back as far as possible in his chair, “I’ve been expecting you.”

“And here I am.” Her Scythe vanished and she rested her hands on his desk, leaning over so that her face was inches from his. “Now, tell me, what is the meaning of all of this.” She bared her teeth at him.

“There is considerable evidence to tie Supervisor Spears to the murders,” he gasped.

“Have you all gone mad?” she shouted. “As if William could possibly do such a thing! What sort of evidence?”

“We are not at liberty to share that information,” he said.

By this time, several of the security force had entered the office. Grell forced herself to back away from his desk and speak calmly. “Where is he being held?”

“In the Administration building holding cell. You are familiar with it.” He sounded a great deal more confident. “He is not being mistreated and will be given an opportunity to clear himself. We are not an unjust society; he will be appointed a competent advocate.”

“But what you are suggesting is impossible!” she cried.

“Spears was observed in London with the latest victim.”

“He was with me!” she insisted. “We left together. How could you know we were in London unless we were being followed?” She caught her breath. “Lucas!” she hissed. “He’s been spying on William and reporting to you, hasn’t he?”

“Agent Lucas Grant has brought some irregularities concerning Supervisor Spears to our attention.”

The little snake, she thought. The Ripper’s victims were going to look fortunate in comparison to what she planned to do to him.

She must have betrayed her thoughts because the Matthews continued, “You are _not_ to confront Agent Grant in any way. I will overlook this outburst in light of your, um—loyalty to your supervisor.”

“Oh stop it!” she exclaimed impatiently. “The entire Dispatch must know by now about William and me. May I see him?”

“For the time being, no.” His tone softened. “Agent Sutcliff, I am just as grieved as you are by this turn of events. I will arrange a visitor’s pass for you as soon as allowed.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I suppose the best thing I can do for William is to return to my work without complaint.” She turned to leave. “Oh—and sorry about your door and shoving my Death Scythe against your throat,” she added sweetly.

XXXXXXXXXX

She had been on her best behaviour for three days, only refusing to be paired with Lucas any longer. She had begged to be allowed to visit William and had been refused.

“May I write him a letter, at least? You can read it.”

Permission was granted and she carefully composed a chatty, friendly note with a casual inquiry about his welfare.

A response was delivered to her:

_Grell,_

_Thank you for concern. I am quite well and comfortable. I cannot discuss the particulars regarding my absence, but rest assured that I miss you. Honestly._

_Yours,_

_William_

It wasn’t a love sonnet, but, on its receipt, she decided the time had come to take matters into her own hands.

Who would have thought that it could be so difficult to get suspended from work? She had to be very careful; she couldn’t afford to be stripped of her Death Scythe; nor could she be confined to the realm. She was diligent in her collections, but smilingly handed in half-finished reports. She padded her expense account with the most embarrassing items she could think of, began a campaign of low-key insolence against William’s replacement and provoked minor squabbles with everyone in the office.

It took two weeks until she was summoned before Management.

“Agent Sutcliff. It has been noted that you have been under considerable strain for the past few months.”

She steepled her fingertips against her heart and batted her eyelashes furiously at them. “You mean when you all allowed me and the rest of the office to believe that I was your prime suspect in the murders? Think nothing of it.”

“And given your, er, close relationship with Supervisor Spears, under the current circumstances . . . ”

“Yes?” she said with her most menacing smile.

“We think you might profit from a short leave of absence.”

She hadn’t been idle in the days earlier. A plan was forming in her mind and she’d made a quick trip to Spectacles to filch what she needed. Mr Deeds had joined her for dinner one evening; he had been appalled by the news of William’s arrest.

“I’ll admit that the wounds do resemble those that might be made by William’s Scythe,” he had said, “but the notion that Spears could do something like this is absurd.”

“How many other Scythes like William’s were made?”

He rubbed the back of his neck in thought. “As far as I know, his is the only one in use, but there are similar models.”

She nodded. William had allowed her to use one that day in the Library. Pouring him another cup of tea, she asked, “Is there any way to determine if one is missing?”

He chuckled. “Happens I’m writing a book on Death Scythes. I’ll be poking around the department quite a bit in the next little while. You’d be surprised at what a bumbling old man can discover.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said, squeezing his hand.

Information about the case was being closely guarded, but Grell had been able to glean a few scraps by means of relentless pestering of the clerks and careful snooping. She had learned the name of William’s advocate and had bullied her way into his presence. He insisted he could not share any details with her, but, just as she was leaving, an elegantly clad woman stopped her and handed her a thick envelope.

“Agent Sutcliff, you might find this to be of some help.” She disappeared behind a door bearing a nameplate reading Minerva Logan.

The name and the woman seemed vaguely familiar, but Grell was too excited to dwell upon it as she leafed through the contents: dates, estimated times and locations of the murders and police reports from the human world as well as copies of the Dispatch’s investigation. She spent much of her free time pouring through it all. There had to be something to clear William in there.

She had managed to pilfer a copy of the entire Dispatch’s schedule for the past several months from Accounting and, for good measure, had helped herself to the time sheets of all the clerical and administrative staff—even some Management files. All of this was being packed into a large satchel when the Branch Director entered her office.

He handed her a sheet of paper. “I promised you a visitor’s pass as soon as possible. You will have only ten minutes and you will be observed during the visit.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“You were not treated fairly in this matter. At the very least, you should have been told the truth and your cooperation enlisted. I was quite annoyed when I learned.”

“Well sir, I’m not exactly known for my discretion.”

“No, you are not,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “But William refused to believe you were anything but innocent from the start. He was quite adamant about it when your name was first mentioned several months ago.”

“Really?” She felt a sudden rush of warmth to think that William had believed in her well before the turn in their relationship.

“You know, Minnie always said William would sit in my chair one day – when he finally pulled the handle of his Scythe out of his behind.”

The woman from Legal! Grell recalled seeing her on Matthews’s arm at the New Year’s Eve party. They had been devoted to each other for centuries, it was said. The Director was gazing at her steadily. “I hope you benefit from your leave, Agent Sutcliff, but . . . ”

“Yes sir.”

“Be careful.”

XXXXXXXXXX

William looked pale and drawn when ushered into her presence by a hulking Security Officer, but his suit and shirt were as immaculate as ever. He sat across a table from her.

“Are you well?”

“Never mind about me!” she exclaimed impatiently. “How are _you_?”

“I am quite well-treated,” he replied. A faint smile crossed his face. “Honestly Grell! Did you expect to see me dragged in here in chains?”

“Nothing would surprise me now,” she said huffily, “after this.” She glared at the officer, sitting near the door. “They had better be treating you well.”

“He’s not a bad fellow,” William said, “and he’s just doing his job, so stop trying to scare the poor man.”

“If you say, dear,” she replied sending a baleful grin in his direction and giggling when he shrank against the wall. “But this is such lunacy! What’s your advocate doing for you?”

“I cannot discuss the case with you,” he insisted, “but I am receiving competent representation.”

“For heaven’s sake!” She puffed her cheeks in exasperation. “You should hear yourself!”

“I hope you are keeping out of trouble.”

“No more than usual,” she replied blandly. “Agent Walters has been filling in for you. Ugh! You know he’s never liked me.”

“He doesn’t, I know. Promise me you won’t provoke him.”

“I’ll stay completely away from him, I promise,” she said with a smile. “But you mustn’t concern yourself about me right now.”

“But I must,” he insisted. “Your welfare has become—important to me. Do you recall when I asked you to listen to my silence?”

She nodded.

William allowed his fingertips to brush hers as he gazed into her eyes.

Grell swallowed hard and saw what she had been longing to hear for almost a century in his expression. “I do, too,” she said softly, “and when this is over, you are going to say that out loud to me.”

He adjusted his glasses. “I will.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Undertaker’s workroom was surprisingly clean and well-organized when compared to the clutter and dust of the shop itself. The tools were stored neatly and an assortment of bottles and phials were precisely lined up on the shelves.

He was bent over a figure on a table, his hair tied back, wearing heavy black rubber gloves and did not bother turning his head when she appeared.

“Put away your Death Scythe, my dear,” he said, “and I’ll be happy to help you.”

“How did you know it was I?” she grumbled, dismissing her Scythe.

“Your perfume.” He stripped off the gloves and turned to face her. “But what took you so long? I was expecting you days ago.”

There was no point in being angry with him. She needed his cooperation and, as William had said, he operated outside of Shinigami rules—something she hoped to turn to her advantage.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to behave just badly enough to be sent home?”

“By your presence, I shall assume you succeeded,” he said with a grin, leading her into his living quarters. “And unless you have been consumed by a sudden desire for my biscuits, I shall further assume that you have come to enlist my help in exonerating William.” He put the kettle on and spooned tea into the pot.

“Why yes, dear,” she replied. “I’m still frightfully annoyed with you for not telling me the truth from the start, so I hope you will share _everything_ with me now. This includes what you haven’t told the police or Senior Management.”

“Truly, there is very little more information, but I do have some theories.”

She sipped her tea and regarded him over the rim of her beaker. “Such as?”

“I believe he has been killing much longer than we realize. Only recently, he has begun to be careless in disposing of the remains.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because the wounds are not clumsy or haphazard. They are very precise—the mark of someone with many years of experience in wielding a Death Scythe. Since my encounter with the victims of Jack the Ripper, I have made a careful study of Scythe wounds. I did not enjoy missing them before.”

“So you think that might rule out anyone relatively new to the Dispatch?” she asked, mentally crossing the names of Lucas and Stephen from the list.

“I do and forgive me for being blunt, my dear, but individuals such as these victims disappear without a trace on a regular basis and there is no one to care.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “And the others will not cooperate with the police. They have never been given any reason to believe that they are of any value in this world. Just freaks, who are better off dead,” she added bitterly. “Which brings me to my plan.”

Undertaker sipped his tea and waited.

“I agree that others have disappeared with no report being made, but the inhabitants of the houses will never confide in an outsider. If we are to learn anything, I shall have to return to my former employment.”

He tapped his teeth with his fingernail. “It could be very dangerous,” he said slowly. “He will kill again. He cannot stop himself and, if you were to encounter him, you would not be dealing with a human, but another Shinigami with a deep-seated hatred for such as you.”

“I know, but I will be expecting a Shinigami; he will not. That should give me an advantage.”

He nodded. “Very well, but you will need protection. I will give you as much as I can, but I would suggest that we bring someone else in. We need Sebastian.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“Thank heavens I don’t need to breathe any longer,” Grell grumbled as Undertaker gave her corset strings another tug and secured them. But she surveyed herself in the mirror, clad in a corset, white cotton bloomers, stockings and slippers, with satisfaction. “Well done, dear.” She smoothed her hands over her new tiny waistline.

“Sebastian will be here any moment. If you are going to convince him of this plan, you had better complete your transformation.”

She pulled a gown over her head. “Ugh! It’s worse than the one Lady Elizabeth put me in.”

“I will admit that shade of yellow does nothing for you, but it was the only one near your size I could find.”

She stared in the mirror and concentrated. The planes and angles of her face seemed to shift; her cheeks became rounder, her mouth formed a perfect pink rosebud, her chin was delicately curved and her teeth appeared small and pearl-like. She watched her eyes lose their green-gold, to gleam a soft blue and drew a comb through her hair, over and over, until the red faded to a strawberry blonde.

“It’s very fragile at the moment,” she said. Her voice was high-pitched and sweet. “I’ll need to work on it, but, with the right make-up, it’s a start.”

“I didn’t pay much attention to the classes in enhancement when I was in training, but you seem to have mastered it,” he said admiringly.

“Well dear, I am a superb actress,” she replied smugly. “I fooled you for the longest time as that mousy little butler, didn’t I?”

The bell over the shop door jingled.

“That’s Sebastian,” she said. “Keep him out front for a few more minutes.”

She smoothed on some lip rouge. There was no time to do anything with her hair, so she plaited it quickly and replaced her spectacles with the pair she had acquired earlier. Taking up a book, she settled into a chair and lifted her skirts just enough to display her ankles.

Sebastian was visibly surprised, she could tell, by the sight of a sweetly studious, perfect English rose, her hair falling over her shoulder, engrossed in a book, tracing absent-minded circles with her foot. She turned her head slowly and smiled shyly at him. “Hello,” she said softly.

“My dear, I would never have recognized you.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said, raising an eyebrow. “And what is the purpose of this new persona?”

She spoke gently, trying to feel her way into her new character. “I wish to move among the world of the victims, to gain information from them that they will not share with an outsider. Since the murderer is in the Dispatch, he must not be able to recognize me.”

“And how am I to help in all of this?”

“Undertaker is convinced that I need protection. Silly, I know,” she giggled. “I propose that we approach one of the houses tomorrow. You will pose as my procurer and offer my, er, services to the proprietor.”

“I suppose it is not a bad plan. The victims’ companions have not cooperated in the least. You might discover something of use.”

“And you will be able to move among them, as well.”

“And what will happen when someone wishes to purchase your services?”

The illusion, still new and weak, was beginning to break. Her voice grew hard when she answered, “I will do whatever is necessary to gain William’s freedom.”

Sebastian stared at her for a moment. “I guess you will. I will meet you here tomorrow and we will begin.”

As soon as he was gone, she stripped off the gown and presented her back to Undertaker to unlace the corset.

“Grell . . . ”

She peered over her shoulder in surprise; he so rarely called her by name.

“Have you given any thought to the consequences of what you are doing?”

Sighing with relief when the corset dropped to the floor, she waved her hand impatiently in his direction. “There’s a certain amount of danger, I know, but Sebastian will be there. He might be able to sense the presence of a Shinigami. He _did_ suspect me for a while before I revealed myself. And as for Senior Management, I think the Branch Director is giving me some unofficial support.”

“That is not what I meant,” he said, handing passing over her sleeve garters. “What you are doing for William is very brave, but he is not the most . . . ” His voice trailed off. “What I mean is that he is not very–”

“Are you trying to say that William is an old stick in the mud?” she asked while tying her shoes.

“Yes. If you are forced to perform—certain acts, how will he react? You might be gaining his freedom at the cost of his love.”

“There are ways of avoiding intimacy, even in those circumstances. _I_ know. And even if William is utterly repulsed by me afterwards, it will still be worth it,” she said softly.

“You love him that much,” he stated. As she nodded, he fetched a tiny bottle from a drawer. “In case your wiles fail, a drop of this should keep you safe.”

“What is it?”

“Kendal Black Drop with one or two other ingredients. Just a drop will be enough to distract a man for a short time and the side-effects include dreams of a most pleasurable nature, I’m told. When he comes around, he will believe he has had an experience like no other.”

“Thank you, dear.” She hugged him hard.

He took her face between his hands. “Dearest Grell, you have provided me with untold amusement over the past few years. I would do anything to ensure that you continue to do so.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Undertaker seemed uncharacteristically agitated when she arrived at his shop the following afternoon. “Where have you been?” he fussed. “Sebastian has been here for close to an hour.”

“You know I have to be very careful, dear. There is no guarantee that I am not being observed. I made sure I was seen out and about this morning—shopping and that sort of thing. And I spent a little while with Mr Deeds. He managed to get underfoot so much that the Head of Scythes simply handed over all the registers and told him to study them at home.”

“Has he discovered anything yet?”

“Do you remember that day in the Library?”

“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll always regret not taking you up on that offer.”

She handed him her coat. “William allowed me to use a Scythe virtually identical to his. Mr Deeds is trying to track it down. I _did_ return it, but it seems to have disappeared.”

“But aren’t Death Scythes heavily guarded? It should be impossible to take one without permission.”

“You’d know more about that than I do,” she grinned, “but it does make it less likely that a junior agent could be the one. A new reaper could hardly wander around the department without attracting notice. I’m checking everyone’s schedule against the times of the killings. I never thought I’d be grateful for the Dispatch’s love of paperwork.” She followed him to the back.

“There you are,” Sebastian grumbled. “We haven’t much time for you to prepare.”

“Good heavens Bassy!” she shrieked. “Look at you! Don’t you look divinely decadent?”

He glanced down at his brocaded gold waistcoat and overly fitted trousers. “It would scarcely be appropriate for me to move about that world in the garb of a Phantomhive butler.”

She cocked her head to one side. “You do look every inch the slightly gone to seed aristocrat.”

“Indeed. Now, I have not been idle. You will make your debut tonight at Mother Cleary’s house. Everything has been arranged.”

“I’ll say!” Undertaker chuckled. “He’s had handbills distributed all over town.”

She caught up the paper he held and peered at it. “Tonight!” it read, “At Mother Cleary’s, The Rose will make her debut!” This was accompanied by a charming sketch of herself in the persona she had created the night before. “After her performance, a private interview with The Rose may be arranged.”

“Now, get ready. A carriage waiting for us and a crowd is already beginning to gather at the house. You will make a grand entrance. I am trusting that your performance will be memorable.”

“I have given some thought as to the nature of my performance.” Quickly, she described what she had in mind.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Very clever. Enticing, but untouchable. If the killer has a deep-seated hatred of your kind, you should be quite irresistible to him.”

Her kind. She sighed. Freaks and misfits—abominations of nature. How was she to be expected to do the Will of the Higher Up when everything about her was a mistake? But she forced herself to smile and nod at Sebastian. “I’ve also been perfecting the illusion. It should be quite unbreakable now. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”

“I have taken the liberty of supplying you with some more suitable attire.” He gestured to a small trunk.

Flinging it open, she found a dizzying assortment of gowns and accessories. “How lovely!” she cried.

“You must be dazzling; you must become the talk of the town.”

“Oh! I shall. Please say I can keep them when this is done.” She pranced about the room holding a gown against her. “Now shoo! I need to get ready.”

She selected a gown of palest jade-green silk. Modestly cut, the lace-trimmed neckline skimmed her collar bones. It moulded her torso before belling out into a deeply flounced wide skirt. It fitted her perfectly, but what sort of Phantomhive butler would Sebastian be if could not accomplish that much? Giggling to herself, she stepped into matching low-heeled slippers, applied her make-up carefully to give the illusion of none and pinned up her hair. Perching a pair of demure gold-rimmed spectacles on her nose, she wrapped herself in a hooded cape of darker green velvet, trimmed with swansdown and walked to the front.

“Very nice.” Sebastian regarded her critically. “Pity about the spectacles. Must you wear them?”

“Unless you want me walking into pillars or falling off the stage, I’m afraid so. I think they make me look quite distinguished,” she said with a toss of her head. “And they have other uses.” She peered up into Sebastian’s face over the rims, blinking mistily, while she trained her expression to one of utter confusion and helplessness. “See?” she grinned.

“Very disarming,” Undertaker chuckled. He tucked a pink rose in her hair. “A rose for The Rose.”

“I suppose I had better not ask where this came from.”

“Better not.” He smiled and pinched her cheek. “Take care, my dear,” he said softly.

She nodded and followed Sebastian from the shop. A carriage waited outside, the driver slumped in the seat with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Heavens! Is that Baldroy driving?”

“In my current guise as your protector, it would not be suitable for me to drive.” He handed her into the carriage and surveyed her with satisfaction. “The illusion is very good. You look quite sweet and helpless. No one from your realm would ever suspect you are the notorious Grell Sutcliff.”

“It’s no more than you do. You maintain a false appearance also. I’ve been thinking . . . You might want to make a few changes. You are not unknown in the reaper world.”

“You are correct. I had already taken that into account during my visit earlier to arrange matters.”

She watched as Sebastian aged before her. His cheeks grew hollow and debauched pouches appeared beneath his eyes while the hair at his temples greyed.

“Well done,” she giggled. “You look wonderfully dissipated. I suppose a mustache would be overdoing it. You could twirl it like a villain in a melodrama. Have you come up with a name?”

“Jacques de Plancy. A dispossessed aristocrat, who left France under questionable circumstances.”

“Clever choice,” she laughed.

“I thought it was a nice touch,” he said smugly. “It seemed fitting. Now, we are almost there. Are you prepared to face your public?”

They had come to a stop before a house on Cleveland Street in Fitzrovia. From its reputation, she knew that it catered to a far more exclusive clientele than the establishment she had shown to William or any she had frequented during her life. A crowd had gathered at the door.

Baldroy leapt from his seat to open the carriage. Sebastian climbed out, making a slight bow to the assembled throng and extended his hand.

Grell pulled her hood up over her head and placed her hand in Sebastian’s. Drawing up her skirts just enough to allow a glimpse of her ankles, she stepped out. A low murmur went up at her appearance, but she kept her head bowed and eyes lowered as she walked slowly to the door of the house, only turning her head slightly so that her profile could be seen through the swansdown that trimmed her hood. As the door opened, she pushed back the hood and glanced over her shoulder, smiling shyly at the men who pressed closer and disappeared inside.

“Superb!” Sebastian said quietly. “Exactly the impression I was hoping for.”

They were approached by a heavyset man in his fifties. “Mr Plancy. So this is The Rose.” He walked slowly around Grell, surveying her from head to foot. “She is certainly everything you promised.”

Grell shuddered inwardly. She had forgotten how it felt to be judged like a piece of livestock, but she raised her eyes to his face and smiled sweetly.

“Ma chère,” Sebastian said with a slight French accent, “let me to present you to Mr Thomas Welles. He has kindly allowed you to make your debut here tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” she breathed, “for affording me the privilege of appearing in your establishment.” He was smiling genially, but his eyes were cold. She knew his type, had encountered it many times before and was grateful that Undertaker had insisted that Sebastian accompany her.

He grasped her chin firmly. “The ladies of Mother Cleary’s are famous throughout London. You should make a fine addition. Mariah!” he called. “Take The Rose to the dressing room. I need to discuss a few matters with Mr Plancy.”

The woman he called over was taller than she was, her shoulders were broader, but she was clad in a red and black gown that Grell could have fancied for herself. She was expertly made up to accentuate her high cheekbones and snapping black eyes and thick black hair cascaded down her back.

She regarded Grell insolently. “This way,” she said with a gesture to the back.

Grell followed her through the room, noted the tables set with gleaming white linen and sparkling crystal, saw the alcoves, ranged along the sides, furnished with luxuriously tufted velvet banquettes and heavy curtains that could be drawn across to afford privacy.

Mariah walked with a feline grace and confidence and she knew she was in the presence of the star attraction of the house, the leader of the pack and that, without her support, she had very little chance of succeeding in her mission. She flung open a door to a room crowded with figures in various states of undress. “Ladies,” she announced with a fox-like smile, “The Rose has joined us,” and, with a shove, pushed her into the room.

They fell silent. She could feel many hostile eyes upon her and remembered the desperate backbiting and infighting of the houses she had inhabited during her lifetime. “ _There was always a newer girl or younger girl_.” She recalled her words to William. Her presence was a threat to them all; she would have to tread carefully.

“How do you do,” she said quietly, “I am looking forward to knowing you all.” She walked hesitantly to a row of seats in front of a long mirror that lined one of the walls. Choosing one at the very end, she looked about questioningly. “May I? Does this place belong to anyone else?”

“You might as well,” Mariah snorted. “No one’s seen Elsie in over a week.”

She could sense the unease and fear that rippled about the room and tucked the name away in her memory. Someone was stalking and brutally murdering these women and it was worse than they knew, for the killer had supernatural abilities and strength beyond their comprehension. And she had put herself in his path. She felt a tremor shake her.

“Nervous?” one inquired archly.

“Well yes,” she replied. “You’re all so beautiful and sophisticated.” They were—all most exquisite and carefully selected and groomed, although, with a quick glance, she registered those who, like her, had been born in the wrong form and those who had adopted this means of selling themselves out of necessity. She caught Mariah watching her in the mirror and knew she was one of the former.

A tap sounded at the door and Sebastian appeared. “Forgive my interruption, but The Rose requires her wardrobe.” He handed Grell a valise and caught hold of her wrist. “You will do me proud tonight, won’t you?” He smiled menacingly at her.

She could feel the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement, but simpered up at him. “Of course, my love.”

“See that you do,” he muttered as he turned away.

She turned to face the women in the dressing room. “Dearest Jacques,” she sighed. “I am so fortunate. He cares for me so much. He says I must be the best. He always helps me—or corrects me.”

Opening the valise, she removed a compact and began to powder her nose with a hand that shook slightly.

The woman next to her patted her hand. “You’ll do very well, I’m sure. You’re lovely,” she said wistfully. “And your protector is very handsome and distinguished.”

Grell could see the crow’s feet under the carefully applied make-up and threads of grey in her hair. She was still beautiful, but no longer in her prime, and she wondered how much longer she would last in that house. “Isn’t he?” she replied. “I must succeed here. He had a run of bad luck at the tables lately—it’s made him a bit bad tempered.” She carefully schooled her expression to complete innocence. “Of course, once we’ve repaired our fortunes, he says he will take me back to France with him. He owns a lovely chateau in the country where we can be together always.”

“Of course he will,” said a sardonic voice. A few joined in her laughter.

She chattered artlessly while she changed and applied her make-up, weaving a tale of having been led astray by a dashing and mysterious nobleman from the continent. “As soon as I saw Jacques, I just _knew_ he was the one,” she said breathlessly. “Of course, I have to do what I can to help him, but I’m happy to.” She was almost enjoying herself, casting Sebastian in the role of spoiler of innocence with herself as his hapless victim.

The others gradually drifted from the room to join the company that had begun to arrive or to take to the stage until only Grell, Mariah and two or three others remained. One approached her, far too close for her comfort. “You have lovely skin. So smooth.”

“Thank you,” she managed to say. “I guess I’m lucky that way.”

“Too smooth. Are you sure you’re _quite_ one of us?” Her hand fumbled at Grell’s crotch.

Lightning quick, she caught her hand in a brutal grip. “My dear,” she said softly, “please don’t do that or I will make you very sorry.” She raked the others with her gaze as she felt her assailant’s wrist bones grind in her grasp. “I assure you that my watch and seals are intact.” She flung her aside and watched in the mirror as she left, nursing her bruised wrist.

“Well done,” Mariah chuckled. “Of course, had you been a pretender, Lydia and the others would have torn you to pieces.”

“Well, I’m not,” she sniffed.

She took a seat beside her and began to brush her hair. “No, you’re not. _I_ can tell. You’re also not nearly as naive as you pretend, but that can remain between us.” She fumbled with her hair, trying to skewer the thick curls into place and cursing softly as one unruly lock kept sliding down.

Grell smiled at her and reached into a little velvet bag of hair ornaments and accessories to produce an ebony comb, studded with red stones. “Your hair is beautiful,” she said. “So thick and such a lovely colour. If I may?” She secured the vagabond tress with the comb. “It suits you wonderfully—far more than me. Please keep it—as a token that you and I understand one another.” She stared into her eyes. “I have no desire to take your place here, I swear.”

She nodded slightly. “See that you don’t.”

There was a knock at the door. Sebastian lounged against the frame. “Mr Welles has seen to it that the stage has been set up as you require. It’s time. Don’t disappoint me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kendal Black Drop was an opium-based drug which is said to have influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge in the writing of _Kubla Khan_.
> 
> Mother Cleary's is an upmarket amalgam of Mother Clap's, a notorious 18th century Molly house, and an infamous male brothel of the late 19th century in Fitzrovia which was the center of a scandal involving Queen Victoria's grandson.
> 
> Jacques Collin de Plancy was a demonologist who wrote books about the occult and demons in the 19th century.


	7. Chapter 7

Mother Cleary’s had existed for over a century. Its unassuming location, near a workhouse, and deceptively plain and run-down exterior disguised the luxury and comfort within. The finest linen, china and crystal adorned the tables. Meals, prepared by chefs from the continent, were available and the wine cellar was almost unrivalled. The house had been tacitly allowed to exist those many years due to rumours that the patrons were of some of the most noble and powerful families in the land. Even the Duke of Clarence, grandson of the queen, was said to be a regular.

The entertainment was beyond compare and the companionship was designed to cater to those of a very particular taste. Unlike the Molly houses of High Holborn, Mother Cleary’s employees were guaranteed to be beautiful, disease-free and compliant to any whims. Burly men scattered throughout the rooms ensured the patrons’ safety and absolute discretion protected many reputations.

The stage and lighting had been installed by a great theatrical designer and the spectacles presented rivalled the West End theatres. Mr Welles stepped out onto the stage and the house fell silent.

“Honoured guests,” he began, “all of London has been talking of the fair flower who will make her debut tonight. It is with great pleasure that I present to you L’Accouchement de la Rose!”

The velvet curtains swept apart to reveal Grell, clad in a simple, modest gown of pale blue muslin, perched on a chair set before a mirrored dressing table. Her hair was pinned up carelessly and she twined and errant lock about her finger while her head was bent over a book that rested in her lap. As soft music played, she yawned delicately, covering her mouth with her fingertips and placed the book on the dressing table.

Grell stared dreamily at her reflection in the mirror and began to pluck the pins from her hair. Under the lights, her hair gleamed, thanks to a dusting of gold powder she had applied and, when she began to smooth a brush through it, errant flakes of gold caught the light and sparkled around her. Stretching voluptuously, she picked up a pink rosebud from the dressing table and pressed her lips to it before drawing the soft petals along her neck and across her chest.

She lifted her leg; her skirts fell back to reveal her slender calves and she slowly untied her garters and rolled down her stockings. The lace edge of her drawers peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. Standing, she took up the rose again and held it close while she opened the buttons concealed in the lace on the bodice of her dress. A dainty chemise could be seen as the gown opened and she turned her back to the audience. With a graceful shrug of her shoulders, the dress slipped down, and lifting her arms, it fell past her hips to the floor.

A full length mirror stood nearby, a lace peignoir hanging from it. Wearing only the frilled cotton chemise and matching drawers, she crossed the stage to pose before the mirror—a girl just becoming aware of herself. Under the limelights, the shape of her body could just be made out through the thin fabric and a darker shadow at the juncture of her thighs. One of the straps slipped down her shoulder. Languorously, she caressed herself—her shoulder and collar bones and her fingers strayed below the frills for an instant while her eyes fluttered shut and her head tipped back and her mouth fell open. Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she covered her mouth as if shocked by her own actions.

Watching herself in the mirror, Grell slowly opened the tiny pearl buttons that lined the front of the chemise. The music was softer, but more insinuating as the fabric parted. Her skin gleamed like polished ivory and a low intake of breath could be heard from the crowd when it fell to the floor. She toyed with her nipples delicately for an instant before concealing them from view by sweeping her hair forward.

She began to play with the ribbon that tied her drawers, smoothing her fingers down its length and rolling it provocatively between her thumb and forefinger. With agonizing slowness, she tugged it open and flung her head back so that her hair cascaded about her as her drawers slipped to the floor. Veiled by her hair, which reached almost to her knees, Grell caught the peignoir hanging on the mirror. She pirouetted gracefully; her hair streamed wildly about her allowing the briefest glimpse of her body and she wrapped herself in the lace garment as the curtains closed.

Thunderous applause and loud cheers shook the room. Grell slipped out in front of the heavy velvet curtain, clutching the wrapper close. She smiled and kissed her hand to the audience and, when she stooped to gather up the flowers flung onto the stage, her robe flew open for a second. Her lips parted in an O of surprise; her fingertips covered her mouth in shock and she ran offstage, blowing kisses at all.

“Very impressive,” Sebastian murmured, taking the flowers she shoved into his arms.

Belting the robe tightly, she stood for a moment, waiting for the trembling to subside. “I’d forgotten what hard work that was,” she muttered. “Anyone who thinks it’s an easy way to earn a crust has never had to do it.”

Mr Welles was in the wings. “Well done, my dear. There are already a half-dozen gentlemen clamouring to meet The Rose.”

She smiled vacantly at him. “Oh Mr Welles! I would be so happy to meet any of them, but you must arrange that with Jacques. Allow me a few minutes to catch my breath and make myself fit to entertain a gentleman.” She slipped away and fled to the dressing room.

Mariah clapped her gloved hands daintily when she entered. “Very nice. You had better change quickly. Your dearest Jacques has men queuing up to meet you.”

Grell quickly donned fresh undergarments and the dress she had worn for her arrival. She was about to coil her hair around her head when Mariah stayed her hand. “Leave it. Men love to see a lady’s hair down.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. You’re so clever. Thank you.”

“But, perhaps, you should lose the spectacles,” she said, reaching out to pluck them from her nose.

She shied away. “Please! Don’t! I’m blind as a bat without them.” She was uncomfortably aware that she was exposing her greatest vulnerability. “I’d make a dreadful impression if I fell flat on my face. You and Mr Welles have been so kind; I couldn’t let you or this house down.”

“Not to mention that dear Jacques wouldn’t be too pleased,” she chuckled.

She bit her lip nervously and nodded and turned her attention to repairing her make-up.

The older woman next to her was adjusting her wig. “Remember that fellow here a couple of weeks ago? Couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose. My, he was furious when Elsie teased him by snatching his specs.”

“Who? Mr Keith?” asked the woman who had confronted Grell earlier. “He’s a right nasty one.” As a few of the others murmured in agreement, she continued, “Remember Josie? She couldn’t work for a week when he was done with her.”

“How horrid!” Grell exclaimed. “I hope I don’t encounter him.” Her mind was racing—spectacles and a dislike of the women in these houses. “What does he look like? I shall certainly try to avoid him.”

“Tall,” she said. “A bit heavier than your Jacques. He might have been fair-haired once, but he’s mostly grey now with a small mustache. His specs look a lot like yours, in fact. And you might be the sweetheart of the place right now, but wait until the bloom is off The Rose,” she added with a malicious smile. “You’ll see whoever they want you to.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” the other said quietly. “Most of our patrons are gentlemen. There are a few to watch out for, but we’ll point them out to you. Don’t let Lydia frighten you. We have to watch out for each other. Especially now.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Now, come along.” Mariah was tapping her foot. “You can’t keep them waiting all night.”

She followed her into the main room. A loud burst of applause greeted her appearance and she smiled and bowed her head. Sebastian was standing outside one of the alcoves.

“I have arranged three private interviews. Your company is not inexpensive,” he said with a faint smile. “All you need do tonight is be charming.”

She stifled a giggle; he couldn’t help the disbelief that flickered across his face at the idea of her being charming. “I might have some information,” she whispered and slipped behind the curtain.

A portly man in his sixties attempted to stand when she entered the alcove.

“Please, remain seated,” she said softly, extending her hand. “I am delighted to meet you.”

“Enchanting,” he murmured. “Even lovelier close up.” He brushed his lips against her knuckles.

“You know,” she said confidingly, “I was terribly nervous about coming out here. I’m so glad that my very first acquaintance is someone like you.”

“No need to be nervous. Pretty little girl like you. Couldn’t you tell they all loved you?”

She ducked her head for an instant and raised her eyes to his face. “Everyone has been so kind, but I can tell that you’re different. You’re a true gentleman; a man of authority—stern, but fair. Like a great commander. I shall call you Admiral.”

He started slightly and she repressed a smile. She had spotted him as a naval man the instant she saw him.

“And I will call you . . . ”

“Why, whatever you’d like.”

“They are calling you The Rose. Sweet little thing like you—I’ll call you my Bud. My little Rosebud.”

“Oh! That’s just lovely,” she sighed. “I like that. I won’t let anyone else use that name. Only you.”

She flirted gently with him, keeping her eyes fixed on his face while she allowed him to stroke her hand until the curtains twitched.

“What a pity! I have enjoyed our time together.” She pressed a shy kiss on his cheek. “I do hope to see you again,” she giggled as he turned red.

Her next visitor liked naughty girls, she could tell and she accommodated him, blushing as he told risque stories, but encouraging him to tell more. She drank a glass of the champagne he had ordered in one gulp and giggled helplessly when she was seized with hiccups.

“You mustn’t let me drink any more,” she cried, fluttering her hands at him when he attempted to refill her glass. “It makes me do the most _wicked_ things.” She batted her eyelashes furiously at him and smiled innocently.

“Then I will order two bottles next time,” he chuckled, placing a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist.

The third was a languid young man who seemed more interested in impressing her with his wealth. She managed to look suitably fascinated while stifling her yawns as he droned on about his latest trip to the continent and dutifully admired his gold watch when he ostentatiously pulled it from his waistcoat pocket.

“It’s been such a pleasure to meet a gentleman of such refined and exquisite taste,” she cooed. “I would be pleased to meet with you again.”

His eyes went flat and cold. “Of course you would,” he sneered. “I pay my whores well.”

And the realization of what she was doing slammed into her. This wasn’t performing or playacting; she was selling herself to these men to gain information to clear William. She forced herself to smile and blow kisses while Sebastian escorted her to the carriage and leaned back against the seat, weary to the bone.

“That went extremely well,” he said. “You said you might have some information.”

She listened to clop of the horses’ hooves against the pavement. _He_ might be out there right now, stalking one of the women she had chatted with that evening and she felt herself harden in her purpose.

“A man who calls himself Mr Keith.” She repeated the description. “Of course he must wear spectacles; he’d be helpless without them.”

“It does narrow the search somewhat. I made a few inquiries of the women on the floor—gave the impression I was looking to expand my operation—and questioned the security men. After all, my delicate Rose must be safe,” he added with a mocking smile.

“Did you learn anything?”

“A woman disappeared a little over a week ago from that establishment.”

“Elsie?”

“That was the name. I will try to get a description of her last known companion. You should do the same.”

“I shall. Ugh!” she complained when they came to a stop at Undertaker’s. “I have to change again. I’ve done nothing but put my clothes on and off all evening.”

“Then next week’s performances should be something of a relief.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “You will continue your current act for the next three nights. Mother Cleary’s is closed on Sundays,” he said with a sardonic grin. “By Monday, these will be all over London.”

Grell glanced at the handbill and raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Can you handle such a performance?”

“Of course,” she sniffed. “Just make sure the water is warm.”

XXXXXXXXXX

The following days were a blur of hopping back and forth between the realm and the human world, of arriving at Undertaker’s every evening to transform herself before setting out to Mother Cleary’s, of pouring over the paperwork she had acquired and painstakingly matching schedules to the known murders and crossing names off her list. She found time to meet Ronald for lunch one day, made sure she was seen about the realm and even dropped into the Dispatch, supposedly to pick up a bottle of her favourite red nail lacquer she had left in her desk.

She smiled and flirted until her face ached, performed to larger crowds every night and raked the audience with her gaze, looking for a spectacled killer. Careful questioning of the other women of the house had revealed the names of several men with reputations for cruelty.

“It’s useless,” she complained to Undertaker on the Monday evening as she prepared herself. “He’s a Shinigami; he can change his appearance at will. The spectacles are our only clue.”

“Very few are as adept at creating an illusion as you,” he replied. “I would imagine that once he had perfected one, he would have to stick to it.”

“I hope you’re right,” she sighed. “Lydia pointed one out to me on Saturday. Said there was something about him that made her hair stand on end, but I only caught a quick glance before dearest Jacques produced another gentleman who was dying to meet me.”

“My dear,” he said, “is Sebastian keeping you safe? Have you been–”

“Forced to allow liberties with my person?’ she asked, her voice growing hard. “It hasn’t been that bad. Not yet. I smile and giggle and flirt—something I’m very good at, you must admit—and a few steal a kiss or attempt a quick grope. Nothing I can’t handle. Now,” she said, taking him by the hand, “you promised to help me.”

“Grell! Please!”

“Or I’ll ask Sebastian. Problem is I think he might enjoy it too much. I’ve put a lot of work into convincing the ladies that my adored Jacques isn’t quite the gentleman he appears. This will be the finishing touch.” She had another reason for what she was asking—one she wasn’t prepared to share with Undertaker.

He sighed and took her wrist and began to squeeze.

“Harder,” she urged. “You can do better than that.” She smiled at the bruise that began to bloom. “Another.”

Undertaker closed his hand around her upper arm in a brutal grip until livid fingerprints coloured her fair skin.

“Very nice. What about around my neck?”

“Absolutely not!”

“I suppose that might be a bit much. This will have to do.” She tugged the sleeve of her deep rose-coloured gown down over the bruise and pulled on a pair of white gloves. “There is something else I need you to do for me.” 

“Of course.”

She handed him a satchel bulging with papers. “Look after this for me. I’m not sure if it is safe to leave it at home when I’m not there. Mr Deeds is sure he saw someone snooping about the house last week. Unfortunately, he was so excited at the notion of using a Death Scythe again to drive him off, he couldn’t give me any sort of description. Everything is in there and if–if things don’t go well for me, perhaps you and Sebastian might find something useful to clear William.”

“Grell, my dear,” he put his arm around her, “is there something you are not telling us? Are you becoming worried about your safety?”

“No,” she insisted. “There is almost no one, who could be considered my equal in combat.” But she wasn’t so sure. The nights of putting herself on display were taking their toll. The days of leading a double life were exhausting and she felt herself sinking deeper into the helpless and vulnerable character she was playing.

XXXXXXXXXX

“I’m afraid it’s only lukewarm, but it’s the best we could manage,” Sebastian whispered to her as she stood behind the curtains that evening. “Dragging a tub out here and having it filled with water between acts is not an easy thing to accomplish.”

Grell dipped her hand into the suds that foamed over the rim of the tub. “Then maybe you should have thought of something simpler for my new performance than ‘The Ablutions of The Rose,’” she snapped. “That water is like ice.”

He ignored her and took her wrapper, raising an eyebrow at the bruises on her wrist and arm. “So Jacques has been a bit of a beast lately,” he chuckled.

“It’s been surprisingly useful,” she said through chattering teeth while she lowered herself gingerly into the water.

It had. She had seen the pity, mixed with scorn, that flickered across the faces of the others in the dressing room when she changed. Mariah had fingered her wrist gently. “Accident?”

“Sometimes I’m very foolish,” she had mumbled, refusing to look her in the eye. “Of course Jacques is going to be upset. He corrects me because he loves me.”

“Of course he does,” Lydia had sneered.

But, in that moment, she was no longer merely a pampered plaything, but a pawn, subject to the whims of men—one of them.

“And,” he said quietly as the music began, “the man we are looking for probably relishes the notion of punishing your kind. You have made yourself quite irresistible to his sort.”

Annoyed that he had divined her true purpose, she nodded and spread her hair over the rim of the tub to stream to the floor.

“But, perhaps, we should make you look a little more vulnerable,” he smirked and snatched her spectacles from her nose, placing them on a stool at the foot of the tub.

“Bastard!” she hissed. But he had fled the stage and the curtains flew open.

Grell clutched the sides of the tub for a second, frozen with panic. Her world was reduced to a smudged image, a series of indeterminate blurs. She felt more naked than she had in her entire existence—at the mercy of the men cheering and clapping on the other side of the footlights. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to concentrate. She was taking a bath—something she did without her spectacles almost every day—and lifted her leg from the bubbles and trickled water from a sponge over it.

She was a girl, frolicking in the bath. She playfully splashed at the water, gathered up a handful of bubbles and blew them away. Taking up the sponge, she languorously stroked it against her arms, arched her back and squeezed it out to sluice water over her chest. She held firmly onto the rim of the tub and slowly stood. Suds cascaded down her body as she modestly held the sponge in front of herself and carefully stepped out.

Her hand fumbled along the side of the tub while she attempted to guide herself to the stool where a towel and her spectacles rested when her foot slipped in a puddle of water on the stage and she collapsed to the ground. She could hear the audience gasp, but snatched her spectacles and the towel and ran offstage.

She crashed into Mr Welles in the wings just as she settled her spectacles on her nose. “Oh Mr Welles!” she cried, wrapping the towel around her body. “I’m so sorry! I’m such a clumsy fool! I’ve ruined everything.”

“Not at all,” he chuckled. “Almost every man in the place wanted to rush onto the stage and help you up. Listen to them!”

The applause was deafening. She could hear them calling for The Rose.

“They want you. Get back out there.” Suddenly, he looked alarmed. “What’s the matter with your teeth?”

In her fear and panic and humiliation, she had begun to lose control of the illusion. She bowed her head and took a deep breath, forced herself to concentrate and looked up at him appealingly when she spied Sebastian, smiling mockingly at her. “Please tell Jacques you aren’t angry with me,” she begged. “It was such a silly idea of mine to perform without my spectacles. I wanted it to look authentic.”

She walked tentatively back onto the stage, hanging her head, blushing with embarrassment. The men were calling her name and she raised her face slowly to beam at them all and release a peal of infectious laughter. Giggling and smiling, she blew kisses at the audience, allowed the towel to slip from her grasp for an instant and skipped off the stage.

In the dressing room, Mariah handed her a blanket. “I’ve done the bathtub act,” she said with a grin. “The water is always freezing. Take a few minutes to warm up before you go back out. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

“Only my pride,” Grell said ruefully.

“I was in the wings,” Lydia put in. “That was a rotten trick your dearest Jacques played on you.”

She was too cold and upset to bother defending him. Suddenly, she noticed the seat next to hers was empty. “Where’s Connie?” she asked. She hadn’t seen the older woman when she arrived.

“Turned out,” Lydia said shortly. “Mr Welles decided she wasn’t earning her keep any more.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Where will she go?”

“Holborn, most likely,” Mariah answered. “That’s where most of us end out when we’re booted from here.”

“Or the river,” said another. “Or like Charlotte.”

“Charlotte pinched my new pink dress when she was turfed,” Lydia complained, “but when I think what happened to her . . . I can’t be angry.”

A shudder went around the room. “Was she one of the ones . . . ” Grell’s voice trailed off as she tried to hide her emotion. “Nobody knows anything? Nobody saw anyone?”

“I saw her the day before,” one said. “She was in a bad way, but said there was a fellow going to take her away, he promised. She could barely stand for the drink—kept blathering about him. So handsome and distinguished, she said. So dignified with his specs and grey hair.”

Trembling with excitement, Grell pulled her dress over her head. William was _dreadful_ at concealment; everyone in the Dispatch knew that. He couldn’t hold even the simplest enhancement for more than a minute or two. It wasn’t much, but it might be of use in clearing him.

Sebastian addressed the men gathered near the alcove when she emerged. “The Rose will accept only two appointments this evening. She is still too distraught about the event onstage.” He ensconced her on the velvet banquette and ushered in her first guest.

Still shaken and anxious to discuss her new information, Grell was relieved to recognize her first visitor.

“Oh Admiral!” she cried. “Thank heavens it’s you! I feel like such a clumsy fool!” She buried her head against his shoulder and sobbed.

“There, there,” he replied, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Don’t cry little Bud. You were lovely. Looked like Venus rising from the foam when you stood.”

“Truly?” She gazed up at him and dabbed her eyes.

“Absolutely. Enchanting. Anyone can slip.”

She fixed an admiring smile on her face. “You’re so kind! I’m sure you never fell over your own feet like that—even on the deck of a ship. A man like you would always stand firm and strong.”

He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. At Grell’s urging, he began to speak of his naval service while she uttered appropriate exclamations of horror and praise until their time was done.

Sebastian studied her face carefully after he had seen him out. “You will need to exercise extreme caution with the next. You will understand when you meet him.”

Grell carefully trained her expression to one of complete artlessness as he seated a grey-haired man with spectacles.

“Ma chère,” he murmured, “this is Mr Keith. He is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

“How do you do,” she said, holding out her hand.

He took hold of it, tracing his fingers across the bruises on her wrist. “You are very fair,” he said. “Your skin must mark very easily.”

He was staring at her with a hungry intensity and she _knew_. “Oh, it does,” she giggled. “And I’m so graceless sometimes. There are days when I’m simply black and blue.”

She had to make him speak, listen to him carefully, try to identify him somehow. She stared at his hands, still holding hers. They did not match his weathered appearance and a small scar marked the back of one. It must have been a terrible wound; Shinigami usually healed without a trace and she wondered if she could get hold of the Infirmary records.

“You received no injury tonight, I hope.”

Smiling vapidly at him, she replied, “Only to my dignity.”

“And this,” he said, pushing up her sleeve to reveal the bruise on her arm, “how did this happen?”

“I was little too bold,” she said, hanging her head. “Sometimes I can be—wilful.”

She repressed a shudder at his intake of breath. The closed atmosphere of the alcove was making her feel lightheaded and the lingering aroma of Sebastian’s heavy cologne—necessary to mask his demonic scent—was choking her.

“And Mr Plancy disapproves of boldness and wilfulness?”

Grell nodded her head and forced herself to look directly into his eyes while her lips curled into a knowing smile. “Dear Jacques believes he can control me,” she challenged, “but he is not man enough.”

“Perhaps, one day, you will meet a man who treats you as you deserve.”

“Perhaps, I shall,” she breathed, gazing at him adoringly while fighting the urge to summon her Death Scythe and finish him right there—something she didn’t quite dare to do . . . yet.

XXXXXXXXXX

“It’s he; I know it is,” Grell said in the carriage later.

“But you have no idea who he is?”

“No. The illusion is quite good, except for one small detail.” She told him about the hands. “But I can hardly storm into the Dispatch and demand to inspect everyone’s hands based on a gut feeling. Did you sense anything—off about him?”

“Like you, more just a notion that something about him wasn’t quite as it seemed. I shall try to observe him very carefully if he returns to Mother Cleary’s.” He handed her down from the carriage and escorted her into Undertaker’s shop where they acquainted him with what they had discovered.

“I have been going through all the papers you left,” he said. “I believe I have been able to eliminate another two names based on their schedules.”

“That leaves about six active agents,” she sighed, “and I’ve barely started on the other departments.”

“I think you should concentrate on Management. It seems highly unlikely that he is from one of the clerical departments. As I said, this is someone with experience with a Death Scythe and only someone from Management would have the access necessary to steal a Scythe.”

“And you believe he has been killing for years . . . ”

Grell reflected for a moment. Walters disliked her; she had heard he had urged the harshest punishment possible when she was disciplined after the Ripper. Perhaps, it was more than a personal antipathy. Maybe it extended to all like her. But the others . . . Men she had worked under for almost a century like the smoothly professional Assistant Director Edwardes. The Head of Death Scythes—he was Mr Deeds protege and had always tacitly overlooked her unapproved modifications to her own. The instructor who had spotted her talent and encouraged her to pour her rage and frustration into combat. Some of these men she respected; a few she even admired. And one was a mad man, possessed by a bloodlust that rivalled her own.

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell stumbled home every morning and spent the next days pouring over the Management files in a haze of exhaustion. She continued to perform without her spectacles, only insisting that they be placed on a stool at the head of the tub within easy reach and Sebastian had kept her busy until the early hours, entertaining an endless stream of men.

“Honestly,” she grumbled to Undertaker while she changed, “every single one of them thinks it’s a great joke now to try to snatch them.” It was annoying and frightening to think that her greatest weakness had been made apparent.

“How did you deal with them?”

“Simpering and pretty pleading usually does the trick, but one was especially persistent until I did this.” She lifted her spectacles and crossed her eyes, her brows drawing together in a fearsome squint. “He was so taken aback, he handed them over immediately.”

Undertaker burst into laughter. “Well done, my dear. Have you had any success with the files?”

“As far as I can tell, there are only three whose time cannot be accounted for at the times of the murders: Special Supervisor Ethan Walters—he’s covering for William right now, Branch Director Joseph Matthews and Assistant Director Quentin Edwardes. I know,” she said, “it seems absurd suspecting any of them, but if William could be arrested, no one is above suspicion. You were still active while all three were collecting, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you reflect on them for a bit? See if there’s anything you recall that might suggest if it is one of them. Mr Deeds is doing the same. We’re running out of time. William’s hearing is scheduled in three days.” She looked pensive and fiddled with the lace that trimmed her jonquil yellow gown. “It’s beyond clearing William now. _He_ is out there, killing those women because he hates what they are—what I am. And there’s something else . . . ”

Undertaker passed her a mug of tea. “I’ve already heard,” he said softly. “Tonight, The Rose will be plucked.”

“Sebastian held it off as long as he could, but Mr Welles insisted. After my performance tonight, my appointments will be of a more intimate nature.” She took a large gulp of her tea. “It was bound to happen,” she said in an artificially cheerful voice. “It’s not as if I’m a blushing maiden. I’m sure I’ll manage and,” she grinned, “I heard that the price of my first rendezvous set a record. Too bad Sebastian wasn’t around when I was alive. I could have retired within a year.”

Even Sebastian looked sheepish when he escorted her to a private room that night. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said quietly.

“Why?” she asked, her voice growing hard. “It’s no more than what you’ve done to get information in the past.” She swept past him into the room, relieved to see it was clean with fresh linen on the bed. “At least you convinced Welles that The Rose should entertain only one man a night. After all,” she added scornfully, “I’m far too delicate and ladylike to slip a gentleman a buttered bun.”

Grell let out a shrill laugh at Sebastian’s surprise and settled herself into a chair, assuming a vapid expression. “Go fetch him,” she ordered. “A lady mustn’t keep a caller waiting.”

Her nails were digging into her palms. You’re doing it for William, she told herself. You’re doing it for the women in the dressing room who can’t defend themselves like you can. She fingered the tiny bottle Undertaker had given her that nestled in her pocket. Only as a last resort, she decided, but her flesh was crawling and her stomach was churning at the knowledge of what she was about to do and, with real relief, she recognized the man she called Admiral, standing diffidently in the doorway. Him, she could handle.

“Oh! Dearest Admiral!” she cried, flying across the room to fling her arms around him. “It’s you! I’m so happy! I’ve been so nervous and frightened.”

“Now, now little Bud,” he said, pinching her cheek, “no need to be frightened. No one would harm a sweet little thing like you.”

“You’re so kind,” she sighed, tugging him by the hand into the room and settling him in the chair. “Such a gentleman. Not like some of the others . . . ” She stood before him, staring at the ground. “You–you’ll have to tell me what you would like,” she stammered.

“Why don’t you take off that dress to begin with?” he said, turning red. “Let me see my pretty little pink and white Rosebud.”

“Would you help me?” she said shyly. “There are so many buttons and some are so hard to reach.” She presented her back to him.

She could feel his fingers shaking as he unbuttoned her gown and pushed it from her shoulders and turned to face him, clad in her corset, lace trimmed drawers, stockings and slippers.

“Lovely,” he muttered hoarsely. “Would you like to sit on my lap?”

Grell curled herself onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck. Doing her best to ignore his hand fumbling at his groin, she urged him on with soft, breathy cries as he rocked her across his lap.

It was over quickly enough. She waited until his harsh breathing had quieted and cooed softly in his ear, “Oh Admiral! It was like being on the deck of a ship during a great storm! Tossed by passionate waves!”

Climbing from his lap, she stripped off her sodden drawers, allowing him a quick glimpse of her buttocks before wrapping herself in a pink cotton peignoir. She wet a cloth from the pitcher of water that stood on a nearby table and discreetly handed it to him, averting her eyes while he cleaned himself up and fastened his trousers.

“Dear little Bud,” he mumbled, reaching into his pocket to draw out several gold coins.

“No! No!” she exclaimed, opening her eyes wide. She knew he had already paid. “I couldn’t. Not from _you_.”

“I insist. Buy yourself something pretty.”

With a great show of reluctance, she pocketed one gold sovereign. “I’ll buy something special to wear next time we’re together,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

She collapsed into the chair after he left. It hadn’t been that bad, but she felt filthy and wretched and wanted nothing more than a scalding bath. Very few men could be manoeuvred that easily; this would only get worse and, in spite of her brave words to Sebastian and Undertaker, sudden tears sprang to her eyes and memories of all the reasons she had ended her human existence flooded her.

“He seemed quite happy.” Sebastian’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“He was,” she snapped. “Dispose of these,” she said, flinging her soiled drawers at him, “let me change and get me back to Undertaker’s.”

Sebastian held the garment distastefully between his thumb and forefinger. “I see he was easily pleased, but Mr Keith has booked your company tomorrow night.”


	8. Chapter 8

“It must end tomorrow,” Grell insisted when they had returned to Undertaker’s. “Somehow, he has to reveal himself to me and when he does . . . ”

“You are not to run him through with your Death Scythe,” Undertaker stated. “I shall accompany you and Sebastian tomorrow. You and I will return him to the realm to face justice. You are sure that this Keith fellow is the one?”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said. “I have been able to determine that a man matching his description was seen with the one called Charlotte—the victim in the pink dress—on several occasions. Also, Elsie, the woman who disappeared from Mother Cleary’s several weeks ago, was his favourite in the weeks before her disappearance.”

“He’s right,” she said. “The rest of the ladies said as much.”

“With William under arrest, he must be taking more care as to the disposal of the bodies,” Undertaker added.

“Why do you think he became so careless over the past months?”

“It’s a game to the likes of him. In my work with the Phantomhives, I have seen many humans of that sort. He enjoys taunting the authorities and placing suspicion on William added to his pleasure.”

Grell shuddered. All three Senior Managers had been with the Dispatch for centuries. He had most likely been killing for hundreds of years. Dozens, possibly hundreds, like her, had probably fallen victim to him. She was filled with a cold fury that wiped out her earlier shame; he must be stopped. William’s fate and the lives of many depended on it. He would be stopped and she would be the instrument to avenge the victims.

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell sipped tea in her sitting room the following morning. She had spent the rest of the night pacing restlessly around her house and garden. Tonight she would face the monster, break his illusion and bring him down to exact her own brand of justice. He would be begging for death when she finished with him, she thought with a grim chuckle. Her entire body throbbed in anticipation of casting off her own illusion, so that he might know that the mad, crimson reaper was exacting vengeance for her own kind.

A sudden knock at her door startled her and she peered through her front window, astonished to recognize Stephen on her doorstep.

He was shifting from foot to foot and his eyes darted around in agitation. “Agent Sutcliff,” he said loudly, “Agent Knox asked me to stop by on my way home and let you know that he has to work a double shift. He won’t be able to meet you for that drink tonight.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” she exclaimed.

“Please, let me in,” he muttered. “He’s very sorry to disappoint you, he says, but–” The young reaper was practically shouting.

Grell grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. “What’s this all about?” she asked, slamming the door behind him. “Have you gone mad?”

“Please Agent Sutcliff,” he said, “just hear me out. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but–but I have no idea what to do. William’s not there and Agent Walters . . . ”

She nodded her head. She had far more important things on her mind than an inter-office squabble, but she remembered landing on William’s doorstep uninvited. “Why the playacting? And no offense, dear, but you’re a dreadful actor.”

“Because I’m frightened,” he admitted. “I wasn’t sure if I was being followed. It’s Lucas. He . . . That is, I . . ."

“Oh for pity’s sake, calm down,” she ordered impatiently. “Sit and I’ll fetch you a cup of tea.”

She could hear the cup rattling in the saucer when he took it from her. Tea was sloshing over the side of the cup. He was terrified. “Now, what is going on with Lucas?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but I didn’t know what to do or who to talk to about it. Something’s not right.”

Something was definitely not right with Lucas, she thought grimly, remembering that he had been carrying information about William to Management. Was he working with the killer? Or under his control?

“He’s got a stolen Death Scythe in his flat. I was there last night. I’m sure I saw a Scythe in a closet and it definitely wasn’t his.”

“Are you certain?” she asked. “This is a very serious accusation you are making. You’re sure it wasn’t his?” Agents did not stow their Death Scythes in the broom closet, but she had to be sure.

“I’m positive. Lucas’s Scythe looks like a pair of hedge-trimmers. This looked just like William’s. Look, Agent Sutcliff, I know I’m not much of a reaper and I know you don’t think I’m terribly bright, but William is being held for crimes he couldn’t have possibly committed and Lucas is hiding a Death Scythe that looks just like William’s. Could it be Lucas?”

“Truly, I don’t think so,” Grell replied. “But you were right to come to me. And very brave.” She was unsure how much to share with him, but said, “I believe we are very close to finding the true killer. For your own peace of mind, I want you to stay here today. You can keep Mr Deeds company in his workshop. He’s always happy to show off his collection. Wait here while I fetch him.”

The old man was tinkering with a prototype of Ronald’s lawnmower when she went down to the workshop.

“Ah Grell!” he said, “I was just about to come up and speak to you. I was thinking about the three fellows from Management—wondering if it could be any of them. I think you can rule out Edwardes. His Scythe resembled a garden hoe. He wouldn’t be comfortable with pruning shears. Oh my!” he chuckled. “I recall he was madly in love with Minnie Logan himself. Got into the most terrible argument with Matthews over her. Matthews went after him—threatened to cut off his you know what with his Scythe. He was brandishing those secateurs right in the middle of the office.”

“Secateurs?” she asked. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. Secateurs were short-handled pruning shears.

“Yes. Edwardes swung his hoe at him. Almost cut off his hand. Funny to think of the two of them running the Branch now, isn’t it?”

“It’s Matthews!” she cried. “The scar on the back on the hand. Thank you, dear! You’ve done it. Now, I need another favour,” Quickly, she explained about Stephen. “I don’t know if Lucas is working with Matthews willingly, but, until I can take care of our dear Branch Manager tonight, it would be better for Stephen not to be found today.”

“Of course. I might not be as young as I once was, but,” he glanced around at the fearsome arsenal of Death Scythes that surrounded him, “no one could say I’m not well-armed.”

Did she dare storm into the Dispatch and confront Matthews, cut him down before he could summon Security and accept the consequences? What real proof did she have? Circumstantial evidence regarding the times of the murders, a conviction that the man who called himself Mr Keith was the killer and her word that he bore the same scar as Matthews. Given her history, she’d be occupying the cell next to William within the hour. The mad reaper had finally fallen into the abyss of insanity, they would say. Crazed to clear her lover, she had made wild accusations against the Branch Director and slaughtered him.

She thought wildly of hunting down Lucas and torturing him with her Death Scythe until he confessed what he knew and, finally, she considered accosting the one person who did know, the one who had given her the information to begin her inquiry.

How long had Minerva Logan known that the man she had loved for centuries was a monster? How long had she suspected? How long had she dissembled before him, playing the loving companion? And she realized that another life was in danger if she failed.

She had no choice but to follow her original plan. Force him the break the illusion when they were alone and bring him to justice.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Good heavens, darling!” Grell exclaimed. “I was wondering how you planned to disguise yourself, but I never expected anything like this.”

Undertaker grinned and adjusted his bowler hat. “I may not be as skilled as you at creating an illusion, but I don’t think Matthews will recognize me." He smoothed his small, brush-like, false moustache, incongruously black against the silver fringe that masked his eyes, and surveyed himself in the mirror—the baggy trousers, too-small coat and overlarge shoes. He waddled comically over to her and tipped her face up with one finger. “I will be within call when you need me tonight.”

She wasn’t sure how he would accomplish that, but Undertaker’s abilities were beyond her ken, she knew. “I’ll never be able to repay you for your help these past weeks,” she said quietly.

“My dear, I may not inhabit the realm any longer, but I am Shinigami. The idea that one of us is committing these crimes revolts me.”

“I committed similar dreadful crimes,” Grell muttered. “I must revolt you as well.”

“I know and I will not attempt to excuse you; that is something for which you will have account to the Maker one day, but your motives . . . There is darkness in us all. Yours springs from a gross injustice that was done to you at your creation.”

“What about Matthews then? Could he be fighting some inner demon we can’t comprehend?”

“Who knows?” he shrugged. “The Will of the Higher Up can be a terrible thing—beyond our understanding.”

Perhaps, her work this night would help to repay the debt for the five women she had taken—she refused to think of Angelina. Perhaps, in proving William’s innocence, the stain of her own guilt might be lessened.

“You do look lovely tonight,” Undertaker said, “but is that not a rather sophisticated look for The Rose?”

She glanced down at her changeable satin gown—deep emerald green in one light, black in another—and grinned. It moulded her torso to her hips, falling straight to the floor to outline the shape of her legs when she walked, but flaring out to a demi-train behind. Lower cut than any she had worn before, her white skin glowed through the exquisite black lace that masked the decolletage. She had coiled her hair smoothly around her head except for two long curls that trailed over her shoulder and wore a collar of black jet and matching earrings. Her make-up was bold: her lashes heavily darkened so that the blue eyes she had affected gleamed fiercely. She had painted her lips a vivid coral, but her cheeks were stained hectic pink from excitement.

“Tonight, The Rose reveals her thorns,” she said with a soft laugh. She took Undertaker’s outstretched arm as they heard the carriage arrive in front of the shop.

Even Sebastian couldn’t conceal his surprise at Undertaker’s appearance, but his mouth quirked slightly at one corner when he took in Grell’s attire. “Aren’t you playing a rather dangerous game? I thought the idea was to convince him you were sweet and harmless.”

“We know who it is.” Quickly, she told him what she had discovered that day and of her unexpected visitor. “We have to unmask him tonight before he or Lucas can go after Stephen. I’m hoping to set him a little off-balance.”

“Do you think he and Mr Deeds are safe?” Undertaker asked. “It was most likely Lucas prowling around your house. What is to prevent him from returning?”

“Stephen is weak,” she admitted, “and Mr Deeds is old, but there is no one in the realm with a better knowledge of Death Scythes. If there is any vulnerability, Mr Deeds will find it and, as for Stephen, he was paired with Lucas at the final exam. They’ve been colleagues since the beginning. He would know Lucas’s strengths and weaknesses. Hopefully, it should be enough.”

“You are not performing tonight,” Sebastian said. “Welles decided that you should mingle with the guests. Entice them into buying the most expensive items on the menu and enlarge your circle of acquaintance. I’m afraid that Jacques has implied that he might be departing in the near future—without you.”

“Leaving me at the mercy of Mr Welles. Jacques really is a beast,” she giggled.

They had arrived. Grell stayed Sebastian as he was about to alight from the carriage. “Get Baldroy to take you and Undertaker around the back. The Rose will make her final entrance alone.”

XXXXXXXXXX

The house was crowded. Grell drifted from table to table, man to man, smiling and flirting and apologetically moving on after a tiny sip of the expensive wine each had ordered. Mariah had raked her with a knowing gaze on her appearance. “Very nice. The Rose is blooming, I see.”

“You might say that,” she murmured.

She spotted Undertaker, near the back of the room, grinning vacantly and staring about in bemusement. She wasn’t deceived for an instant and knew that, under the foolish expression, nothing escaped his notice.

Except a small, dark-haired figure with a patch over one eye, glaring at one of the burly bouncers, who was trying to remove him.

“Oh! You naughty boy!” she cried, hurrying over. “You wicked, wicked child! I’m so sorry,” she said to the hulking man who held Ciel by his collar, “he’s a little urchin who hangs about near my lodging. He must have followed me here tonight. He’s not quite right in the head, but he means no harm.” She gripped him by the arm as hard as she dared and dragged him across the room to where Undertaker stood.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. “This is no place for the likes of you.” She glanced at the stage. Lydia was performing a rather unusual interpretation of the Dance of the Seven Veils.

“Grell? I thought that might be you.”

“Keep your voice down,” she ordered, checking about to see if Mr Keith had arrived yet. “How did you get here?”

“Hid in the box of the carriage. It’s ridiculous that Sebastian forbade me to be here. I am the Queen’s Watchdog, after all.”

“And you’ll be a very sorry little puppy if you don’t leave immediately.” She thrust him at Undertaker. “Take him back to the shop and keep him there.”

“Is that wise? I am reluctant to leave you.”

“Just get him out of here,” she commanded with an agonized look at the stage. Lydia was getting quite creative with those veils.

She moved back among the crowd and felt a hand take hold of her elbow. “Good evening, my dear. Looks like you had a little spot of trouble.”

“Why Mr Keith!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting the pleasure of your company until later.” How much had he seen or heard? Had he recognized Undertaker or Ciel Phantomhive? The boy was quite well-known in the reaper world and that eye patch was unmistakable. She forced herself to smile at him, although all of her senses were screaming. “That child? He’s a ragamuffin who follows me about. Poor thing isn’t all there, if you know what I mean. Always playacting at something. Last week it was Napoleon; this week, he’s a pirate.” It was the best she could think of so quickly.

“So even boys fall under the spell of The Rose, it would seem. You look ravishing this evening, but not quite so demure.”

“Are you disappointed?” She leaned forward to breathe the words softly into his ear. “Some gentlemen like a lady of spirit. “A _real_ man prefers a little spice in his dish,” she taunted. “An easy conquest is dull, don’t you think?” She slipped from his grasp. “Perhaps, I was mistaken about you.” She saw the annoyance flicker across his face and knew her words had found their mark. If she could anger him enough, he might lose control of the illusion.

Or, she thought a short while later as she waited for him in a room upstairs, she could use the bottle Undertaker had given her. Grell shook a few drops into a wine glass sitting on a table with a bottle nearby. It had virtually no odour. Perhaps, she could persuade him to join her in a glass of wine. She wasn’t entirely sure if it would have any effect on a Shinigami—Undertaker hadn’t been able to tell her—but if it weakened him, even for a few minutes, she could use it to her advantage.

There was another option. Do what was necessary to make him forget himself in the throes of passion. She swallowed hard; she could do it if she must. She thought of his butchered victims; she thought of the undercurrent of fear in the dressing room; she thought of her companions of the past few weeks—many, like her, condemned to exist in the wrong form. Many, she knew with a fatalistic certainty, would leave this world as she had. It seemed to be their lot. There was nothing she could do about that, but she could prevent the slaughter of many. Grell raised her chin, felt her rage and strength grow, called out, “Come in,” when she heard the tap at the door and faced the monster.

She stood silently, proudly, staring at him defiantly while he slowly circled her. His cold, appraising gaze set her on edge. She could feel her heart hammering, but her lips curled into a challenging smile.

“Your skin is remarkable,” he murmured, running a finger down her cheek. His hand lingered at her neck for an instant. “The smoothest and fairest I’ve ever seen of your kind. You are perfect in almost every detail.”

“Almost?” she pouted.

He smoothed his hands down her torso to span her waist. “So tiny,” he said quietly. “One would almost suppose you didn’t need to breathe to be laced so tightly. The illusion is so complete that you could move about on the street and deceive every man who saw you.”

Grell forced herself to remain steady, not to react. Did he suspect? Was he playing with her? “Every man? Even you?”

“Does that give you pleasure? To parade about in the knowledge that you have deluded all who see you? All who take you for a true woman?”

“Does it give you pleasure?” she hissed. “I could dine with you in public, sit with you in the theatre and it would be your secret. Your nasty, dirty secret.” Her voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. “Your shameful little secret.” A muscle twitched in his jaw; she knew she was angering him. “We could share a box at the opera,” she crooned, “and only you and I would know what you like, what you really are.” The indeterminate hazel of his eyes was beginning to brighten and she knew his control was slipping.

“I could.” He took hold of her chin in a firm grip. “And only you and I would know what you are—a freak and a whore.”

“Touché,” she laughed. His Shinigami eyes were completely revealed; she need push him only a little further. She jerked her head from his grasp and poured two glasses of wine, taking several swallows from her own glass while she passed the other to him. “You have me there. Only you and I would know what lies beneath this lovely dress.” She drew her fingers languorously across her chest.

“Show me,” he muttered, sinking into a chair and placing his untouched glass beside him. “Lift up your dress and show me what’s under those pretty skirts of yours.”

Grell slowly raised her skirt, never taking her eyes from his face. His nose had grown wider, his jaw heavier, but he seemed oblivious to the change as he reached out and tugged the ribbon that tied her drawers. He gave a soft gasp when they fell to the floor. She felt horribly exposed, more naked than she ever had on stage under his fixed stare.

He pinched the soft flesh of her inner thigh viciously. She could hear his intake of breath as he marked her skin. “So tender,” he mumbled. “So delicate, but you’re not a real woman, are you?” He took a sip from the glass.

The moustache had faded; the illusion had almost completely vanished. And she knew what he wanted—to humiliate her, to shame her, to force her to say the words. A cold fury took hold of her. Memories of mocking words cast at her during her lifetime and this existence. Cruel, savage words, blows and sneers and she raised her arm, ready to summon her Death Scythe and cut him down when another voice blotted them out.

“ _You are a true female with a form that is yours alone_.”

Holding fast to William’s words, Grell plucked the pins from her hair and shook it out. His eyes were clouding over; the drops Undertaker had given her were taking effect and she tossed away the demure gold-rimmed glasses, reached into her pocket and perched her red spectacles on her nose. “But I _am_ a true woman,” she laughed wildly, exposing her shark-like teeth. “Only a real man can recognize that.” She lifted her leg and kicked him as hard as she could in his chest, toppling the chair backwards.

She had been promised only a few minutes from the drops; taken by a Shinigami, she probably had no more than a minute. Her Death Scythe appeared; she held it to his throat and shouted, “Now!”

Undertaker must still be occupied with the brat. When this was over she was going to throttle the boy—and Sebastian. He should be lurking outside.

Matthews’ eyes began to clear; the effects were wearing off. “Agent Sutcliff,” he chuckled. “What an unexpected pleasure. I thought it might be you when we first met here. I did warn you to be careful.”

“Come without a fight,” she said, prodding him with her Scythe. “I am not the only one aware of what you have done.”

“The old spook?” he spat. “He is being taken care of.”

“By Lucas?” She burst out laughing. “He stands no more chance against Undertaker than a newborn kitten.”

“Probably not.” And he began to laugh as a Scythe identical to William’s appeared in his hand. It telescoped out and neatly clipped her skirt open to rest at her exposed groin. “I prefer my own weapon,” he said, “but this has served quite well.” The blades opened and hovered over her.

Forcing herself to remain completely still, she asked, “Why? Why take so many innocent lives? Why attempt to put the blame on William?”

“My dear Agent Sutcliff,” he laughed, “ _you_ , of all people, should be able to answer that question. You punished them for throwing away what you could never have. I, on the other, grant their dearest wish and take away what they never wanted. As for Spears, he was simply too persistent in his efforts to clear you when your name was mentioned after the first victim was brought to the Dispatch’s attention. And when the old lunatic informed us that a Death Scythe had been used, I had to take certain measures.”

“And you forced Lucas to cooperate with you.”

“No force was necessary. Agent Grant had already approached me about William. Who would have thought that the oh, so blameless Supervisor William T. Spears had a fondness for the drink and an even greater fondness for you?”

If she brought her Scythe down, those shears would close about her. She wasn’t sure if such a wound could be mortal to her; an image of Undertaker’s scars and reattached little finger flashed before and she had to bite back a wave of hysterical laughter at the notion of the doctors in the Infirmary attempting similar surgery. She could almost hear them arguing, “Sutcliff never wanted one in the first place.” But the others would be safe and, if it was fatal, then Undertaker—she had no doubts about his safety—could clear William.

Her finger caressed the switch of her Death Scythe. She rocked imperceptibly on the balls of her feet. “What’s stopping you?” she muttered between set teeth. “Why not grant my dearest wish, make my fondest dream come true?”

She brought her Scythe to life and drove it down as she sprang into the air. The shears snapped shut a second too late, but her tattered skirt flew up about her head and she landed clumsily, in a heap at his head. What an undignified way to engage in combat, she grumbled to herself. But he had caught a glancing blow; a shallow wound cut a diagonal path across his torso.

Matthews climbed unsteadily to his feet and lunged at her. Their Scythes clashed sending a shower of sparks through the air. Grell no longer had any fear; he was wounded and she knew herself to be nearly invincible in a fight.

“No one will believe you,” he panted. “Sutcliff finally went completely insane, they’ll say. Attacked the Branch Manager when he followed her to London to dissuade her from further madness, to tell her the true killer had been found. Lucas is probably dead by now. He went after Undertaker when he realized that he was about to be exposed. His friend will testify about the stolen Scythe.”

“Undertaker knows the truth. You will not keep him silent.”

“A crazy old ghoul, who, they say, is far too _fond_ of his work? The poor old man is cracked in the head. I am Director with centuries of impeccable service. I will insist that he be treated kindly.”

There were others—Mr Deeds and Minerva Logan—who knew the truth. Others, who might deduce it, but she kept silent. “What about William? What will happen to him?”

“Spears will be released with heartfelt apologies. He won’t protest; he always puts the interests of the Dispatch first, but that will depend on you.”

She swung her Scythe, disarming him, and rested it against his belly. “How?”

“It you return to the realm, contrite and apologetic, he will be returned to his former position, but if you persist in spouting wild accusations, his personal difficulties will come to light, your relationship will be put under scrutiny and we will be forced to remove him from all responsibility. Come now, Grell,” he laughed, “think about it. Our crimes are not dissimilar—you even murdered your accomplice—and your punishment was quite lenient.”

“And what will happen to me?”

“Some mild discipline for taking matters into your own hands and attacking the Director. Probably a few weeks of desk work and everything can return to normal.”

“I see. Would you mind if I retrieve my drawers? They say I’m shameless, but I’d really rather not return to the realm in this state.” Grell glanced down at her gaping skirt and exposed groin. She could hear footfalls on the steps leading to the room, could smell a strong cologne and, underneath, a familiar scent.

“I knew you would see reason. We are not unalike in some ways, but I will be keeping a very close eye on you.”

“And I on you,” she chuckled, placing her Scythe carefully within reach and bending over just as the door flew open.

Matthews was pinned to the wall by a fork protruding from his neck.

“Took you long enough,” Grell grumbled, tying the ribbon to her drawers. “I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”

“I had to see to my young master. I had no concern as to his safety in Undertaker’s keeping, but he must be my first priority,” Sebastian replied calmly.

“Of course,” she smiled. “Such an anticipated meal must be watched with great care.” She handed him the Death Scythe Matthews had been carrying. “Well, go on! Finish him off.”

He was thrashing helplessly, unable to cry out; the fork must have injured his ability to speak, she thought dispassionately as Sebastian threw a knife, fixing his hand to the wall and another fork through his shoulder.

“Don’t you want to play with him a bit?” he asked. “A game of darts, perhaps, like that day in the Library?”

“Maybe, just one,” she giggled, taking a knife from him and hurling it with all the force she could muster into his eye socket.

“I guess you could call that a bullseye,” he said with a faint smile. “Did you have any intention of letting him live?”

Grell smiled wolfishly. “Sebby darling! Really!” she drawled. “I didn’t go through all of this to see him pensioned off with an official excuse of overwork. Your young master deserves a good spanking, but it was simpler with Undertaker otherwise occupied, I’ll admit. Now, it’s getting very late.”

She produced a golden compact and began to powder her nose. It was odd, she thought as Sebastian went to work. She had expected to relish this moment, to stand over him laughing in triumph, but all she felt was a dull satisfaction that it was over. Sebastian heaved the body over his shoulder while she opened a portal and gratefully left Mother Cleary’s house for the last time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Massive overtime kept me from updating as regularly as I had hoped. I've been writing this since last September. It was almost abandoned on several occasions.

Undertaker was calmly sipping a mug of tea. Ciel was perched on a casket nibbling at a biscuit and Baldroy was lounging against the door, puffing on a cigarette when they arrived at the shop.

Setting aside his tea, Undertaker sprang to his feet. “Grell, my dear! Are you all right?”

“Quite,” she insisted. “Let me slip to the back and change and we’ll talk.”

She stripped off the gown and undergarments and donned her own clothes, scrubbed the make-up from her face and combed her hair until the natural red reasserted itself. Her face was pale and drawn, she realized, peering into the mirror, and she had dark circles under eyes, but she wasn’t reapplying her make-up at this time of night. Tossing her hair back, she wrapped herself in the defensive armour of her red coat and strode back into the shop.

Sebastian had draped Matthews over an open casket where Lucas’s body reposed.

“Seemed a little disrespectful to leave him on the floor,” Undertaker chuckled.

Grell inspected Lucas, saw the gaping wound, made by Undertaker’s Scythe. His head was nearly severed. “Pity I missed it,” she grumbled. “I would have enjoyed watching you in combat, darling.”

“There was almost nothing to watch,” Ciel said with a laugh. “Undertaker took the fool down in seconds.”

“I’m a little puzzled,” Sebastian confessed. “Undertaker is your equal in combat–”

“Close to it,” she interrupted.

“Why would a relatively inexperienced reaper come after him?” he asked as if Grell had not spoken.

“Most of the Dispatch thinks he’s a harmless old lunatic. Very few are aware of how powerful and skilled he really is. _I_ didn’t know until that day in the Library. Matthews needed Lucas dead to take the blame for the murders,” she said. “He sent him to his death. We need to get the bodies back to the realm.” She consulted her watch. “Heavens! Look at the time! Management isn’t going to be too pleased when we show up at this hour, bearing two dead reapers.”

“Especially when one is the Branch Director. The paperwork will be astounding. William is going to be grateful that he was still incarcerated,” Undertaker grinned.

“Will this night ever end?” Grell yawned while Undertaker locked the door after seeing Sebastian and Ciel out. “We had better get moving.”

“In a moment, my dear. First, tell me what really happened. I thought we had agreed you would not kill Matthews.”

“But I didn’t,” she said, batting her eyelashes furiously at him. “Dearest Bassy did it.” She sighed and told him everything. “I couldn’t let him live. His punishment would have been no harsher than mine. At least I ceased my former amusements. He wouldn’t have stopped and neither William nor I would ever have been safe again. Nor would Mr Deeds or Stephen and, possibly, Minerva Logan.”

“You are correct,” he admitted. “Sometimes, I forget why I chose to remove myself from the realm.”

“Why did you?” She had never dared ask.

“That, my dear, is a very long story. One for another time. And as for you being my superior in combat—pray you never have to find out if it is true.”

XXXXXXXXXX

In spite of her fatigue, Grell burst into laughter at the sight of Stephen and Mr Deeds, surrounded by a ridiculous array of Death Scythes. “It’s all right, dears,” she giggled. “Lucas will not be showing up here, I promise.” She was unsure exactly how much to share with them just yet. Fortunately, Quentin Edwardes had been in the office when she and Undertaker arrived after dropping the bodies at the Infirmary. They had provided statements, submitted to endless questions and given the same answers over and over again until she lost her temper. Finally, she was told to go home and rest with a stern warning not to speak to anyone of what had passed.

“What about William?” she demanded. “Why are you not arranging his immediate release?”

“Spears will be released shortly,” the Assistant Director promised, “but you are not to attempt to contact him for the time being. It is going to take several days to sort this mess out. I don’t want to use the words house arrest, but . . . ”

“You’re saying I had better stay put.”

He nodded. “You are obviously overwrought and tired out by your experience. We will contact you soon.” His expression softened for an instant. “What you did was very brave, but the ramifications for the Dispatch are very serious. Please, Agent Sutcliff, restrain yourself. For William’s sake and your own.”

She stripped off her clothing, _again_ , and climbed into the bathtub. Thank heavens her days of robing and disrobing were done. Her thoughts wandered to the trunk of gorgeous gowns Sebastian had provided. She never wanted to see any of them again. Perhaps Undertaker could send them to Mother Cleary’s; Lydia was about her size. The ladies would have more use for them than she would.

Her hair streamed to the floor as she tipped her head back against the rim of the tub. At least the women and the others like them were safe. The cost had been high; she felt bruised and vulnerable, worn down by the nights of performing and selling her company to strange men and there was the matter of Undertaker’s warning. Had she won William’s freedom at the price of his love? Possibly, she thought, recalling his shock and revulsion that night in London. But William’s exoneration and the safety of her kind were worth it.

XXXXXXXXXX

The inquest took place two days later in a closed chamber of the Administration building. For the first time in weeks, Grell sat opposite William, who looked pale and thin, but expressionless. Undertaker testified first, that he had acquainted Matthews and his assistant about his suspicions concerning the weapon used. The Assistant Director confirmed this and admitted that Management had allowed suspicion to fall on Grell in the hope of flushing out the true killer, or so he had believed at the time. Stephen, also, was briefly questioned, but dismissed after telling of his discovery of the Death Scythe in Lucas’s home.

And then it was William’s turn.

The inquest was presided over by a senior Council member who turned to him and said, “First, we must extend our heartfelt apologies that you were accused and arrested.”

Grell felt the hair on her neck stand on end as he echoed Matthews’ words.

William adjusted his glasses and nodded. He answered all questions without emotion and admitted that he had acted outside of regulation in his quest to clear Grell.

“Would you say that your personal relationship with Agent Sutcliff influenced your actions?”

“No,” he replied tonelessly. “I was convinced of Agent Sutcliff’s innocence from the start—before our relationship changed and before I learned of the true nature of the victims myself.”

She should have been thrilling from head to toe to think that William had always believed in her, but he sounded so impassive and so distant. And he wouldn’t look at her.

“I will admit to becoming more anxious to clear Agent Sutcliff,” he continued, “but I did offer to remove myself from the investigation. It was then I was informed she had never been a real suspect.”

“But this was after your relationship had become known and after you took action without the Dispatch’s consent. You were seen in the company of one of the victims. You were unable to account for your time when the killings took place.”

Grell curled her fists in rage. They were trying to excuse themselves for having arrested William, trying to force him to admit that they had not made a mistake, refusing to be held accountable for the gross injustice done to him.

“That is true.”

He would _always_ put the interests of the Dispatch first, she fumed.

And he did. Calmly agreeing, under their gentle prodding, that the weight of evidence had been against him, that their actions had been justified and he held them blameless.

Finally, they addressed Grell. Sticking her chin out defiantly, she proudly confessed that she had ignored all Management strictures and William’s pleas and took matters into her own hands, that she had allied herself with a demon and performed and offered her services in a house of ill-repute to identify the true killer. While William stared at a point somewhere over her head, she shamelessly admitted that she had never intended to allow Matthews to live. She held back nothing except that she had received information from Minerva Logan and insisted that Undertaker’s only involvement had been to provide her with a place to transform.

The presiding member and other Councillors present conferred among themselves for what seemed like ages before announcing their conclusions.

“Supervisor Spears, you will be returned to full duty two days hence. Once again, we express our regret that circumstances led us to place you under arrest, although, based on the information we had at that time, it is our belief that such actions were justified.”

Grell glanced at William. Nothing. No flicker of emotion—simply a slight inclination of his head.

“Junior Agent Stephen Graham is to be commended for bringing vital evidence forward in this case at the risk of his own safety. Since Undertaker does not reside in the realm or function under the rules of the Dispatch, we can merely thank him for his services in this matter.”

“And Agent Sutcliff,” he trained his gaze on her. “You, also, will report for work in two days. Although you were reckless and flagrantly disobedient, your transgressions will be overlooked. None of this will appear in your file since your courage and hard work exposed Lucas Grant as the killer.”

“What?” she shrieked.

“Director Matthews very bravely followed Lucas to London. You were horrified when he found you at the, er, house and told you. Of course, you both immediately went to Undertaker’s shop to confront him, but Lucas struck a lucky blow and Undertaker dealt with him. The Director’s death is a great tragedy for us all,” he finished, fixing her with a steely glare.

Assistant Director Edwardes spoke up. “Agent Sutcliff, you are understandably distressed by these proceedings, considering your ordeal, but any other conclusion could cause grave damage to the Dispatch—perhaps irreparable. A rogue junior agent is one thing . . . ” His voice trailed off for a moment. “But any other outcome of this inquest could harm the ability of the Dispatch to carry out its function for centuries to come. We are the servants of the Higher Up; our chief must be beyond reproach.”

She could feel Undertaker’s eyes on her and, for the first time that day, the weight of William’s gaze—both begging her to remain silent. She stared at Edwardes for a long moment and, finally, nodded. “Of course,” she managed to say.

“Your absolute discretion is imperative. Anything less will be met with severe discipline. Rest assured,” the inquest leader continued, “we shall exercise the same discretion with regard to your actions in the human world. There is no need for the rest of the Dispatch to know what you were really doing. Your reputation would suffer more than it already has in the past.”

As if she cared! But William cared about his reputation—cared immensely. So she smiled and nodded and agreed to all of their lies.

XXXXXXXXXX

“It’ s disgusting!” Grell raged to Undertaker as she slashed at the foliage in her garden with a pair of shears.

“I agree,” he said, “but, perhaps, you shouldn’t take out your anger on a defenceless rose bush.”

She gazed at the stems that littered the ground around her. “They needed a good pruning. I’ve neglected them dreadfully these past few weeks. But it’s absolutely outrageous! They even called in poor Mr Deeds and compelled him to silence.”

“Ezra is even older than I am. He will understand the need.”

“You’re not saying you agree with what they’ve done, are you?” she cried, her voice rising.

“No, I am not, but I can see why they did it.”

“No wonder you left the Dispatch,” she snorted. “I’ve half a mind to do the same. How would you like an assistant, darling?”

Undertaker smiled gently at her. “As tempting as it would be to keep you all to myself in London, I think you would be miserable.”

She sighed and began to gather up the fallen branches. Tossing them into a basket, she said, “You’re right. I don’t think I could live in the human world.”

“Nor could you live without being near William,” he said. “Promise me you will do nothing rash when you see him next.”

“Why would I? He detested me for the better part of a century. When you think about it, very little has changed,” she added with a bitter laugh. “Perhaps, in a few decades he will be able to look me in the eye again. Perhaps, when another ninety years have passed, I will no longer revolt him.”

“Stop it, Grell! William’s behaviour this morning hurt you deeply. Stop pretending otherwise.”

“I knew the risk when I did this. It was still worth it. Many, such as myself, are safe. Will you send that trunk of gowns to the house?”

“Of course.”

“And there’s a purse with quite a substantial sum in there—my earnings. Sebastian gave it to me. Do what you like with it. I have no need of it.”

“Nor do I,” he replied. “I’ll see that it is distributed among the ladies at the house.”

“Thank you, dear.” She shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and scowled. A prickly cane was growing up the wall, a leafy branch without buds or blooms sucking the life from one of her bushes. Grell hacked at it with her shears and tugged, but it would not come loose, tangled in the rest of the luxuriant growth. Grunting with frustration, she summoned her Death Scythe, ready to attack the stubborn branch, when a pair of pruning shears telescoped over her shoulder and neatly clipped it off.

“Honestly Grell! Must you always react so dramatically?” William adjusted his glasses and dismissed his Scythe.

Undertakers began to chuckle. “I don’t think my presence is required any longer.” He cupped her cheek for an instant. “Hear him out, my dear, but don’t let him off too easily,” he whispered before vanishing.

Grell glared at William. “You do have an uncanny knack for dropping by when I’m at my worst,” she complained, surveying her muddy dress and dirt-caked hands. “But I haven’t been able to find a tiger skin rug and my satin negligee is at the cleaners’ right now,” she added with a nervous laugh.

“I must speak with you,” he said tonelessly. “It is vital that certain matters are cleared up before we return to the office.”

He was so expressionless—disgust or anger, she could have understood, but this complete indifference tore at her heart. “You’re right,” she said, forcing her voice to sound as calm as his. “Just give me a minute to clean myself up.”

He nodded and followed her inside.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” she called from the kitchen as she washed her hands. “Or something cool? It’s terribly hot today. I brought some barley water back from London last week or there’s raspberry cordial in the larder.”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“All right. Have a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She retreated to her bedroom and changed quickly into her work clothes, determined to be as impersonal and professional as William. It was too hot to wear her coat, she thought with regret, but she brushed out her hair until it streamed wildly about her and applied her make-up with a heavy hand. Grinning at her reflection, she tossed her hair back. The shameless scarlet reaper—the disgrace of the Dispatch—was ready.

“When did they release you?” she asked, sitting in a striped wing chair.

William had remained standing. He gazed impassively down at her. “A few hours after they learned of the Director’s death.”

“You must have been quite relieved to return home,” she said. Grell knew she was trying to delay the inevitable with idle chatter. “You’ll be glad to return to work, I’m sure, and everyone will be overjoyed to see you. Walters is all right, I suppose, but–”

“Grell,” he interrupted, “I didn’t come here to exchange meaningless pleasantries.”

She stared up at him defiantly, but she could feel her nails cutting into her palms as she clenched her fists.

“You did everything I begged you not to do. You took matters into your own hands and disobeyed Management. You went to that _demon_ ,” he spat the word, “and enlisted the help of Undertaker.”

“Yes, I did,” she said sweetly while her lips curled into a mocking smile.

“You put yourself on display in a sordid establishment and allowed yourself to be used as an object of pleasure by strange men.”

She nodded.

“You placed yourself in grave danger, putting yourself in the path of a man determined to kill those like you. And not just a man, but a Shinigami—a being whom you knew had strength and abilities and weapons comparable to your own.”

“Hardly comparable, dear,” she couldn’t resist saying. “Very few are.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. “You are wilful and singular and defiant—everything a reaper should not be and,” he sank to his knees and rested his forehead against her thighs, “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

Wordlessly, Grell reached out with a trembling hand to caress William’s head and lift his face. If asked, she would have sworn that he didn’t even possess tear ducts, but his face was wet.

“You’re not angry with me? You’re not disgusted or revolted?” she asked, her voice shaking.

He captured her hands and brushed her knuckles with his lips. “I am humbled by your courage and I feel unworthy of such love,” he said in a low voice.

And Grell finally surrendered to the turmoil that raged in her breast and burst into loud tears. Her shoulders shook with violent sobs, overcome by all the fear and anger and shame of the past weeks.

William stood and pulled her to her feet, folding her into his embrace. “Don’t cry, Grell. Don’t cry, my beautiful, brave love,” he said softly.

With that, she sobbed harder against his waistcoat. “Oh William!” she cried. “I’ve been so frightened. You wouldn’t even look at me this morning.”

He tipped her chin up with his forefinger. “I could hardly cast myself at your feet and declare my feelings in front of everyone at the inquest.”

“I don’t see why not,” she sniffed, but the corner of her mouth was twitching. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes and nose.

William produced his own handkerchief and plucked her spectacles from her nose.

She grasped his wrist and snatched them back. “Please don’t do that,” she muttered.

“They are badly smeared with tears and all that make-up you insist on wearing. I was merely going to polish them,” he said, his bewilderment apparent.

“Being without them makes me . . . nervous,” she mumbled. “Sebastian forced me to perform without them one night. I’ve never felt so naked in my life.”

“Did you—did you come to any harm while you were there?”

There was such tenderness in his gaze—shadowed by fear—that Grell summoned the courage to speak. “I think I should tell you everything that happened, everything I did or else it will always lie between us.”

He took a seat opposite her and leaned forward. “Then tell me.”

She told him everything. Holding his hands tightly, she described her performances in detail and told him of the time she spent with the patrons of the house. “It wasn’t that bad,” she insisted. “Mostly teasing and flirting and even you’ll admit I did plenty of that for my own amusement.” She spoke also of the women of Mother Cleary’s—their desperation and fear. “They’re always at the mercy of someone like Welles—or Matthews.”

“Do you think he might have been doing this during your lifetime?”

“Quite possibly. Girls would disappear from the houses from time to time. There was no one to care about people like us. Undertaker says it was a game to him. The pleasure began to pall, so he had to start leaving the victims where they would be discovered to taunt the authorities. It’s sickening!” she exclaimed. “They’re giving him a hero’s funeral. We’ll have to listen to Edwardes and the rest praise him and carry on about what a great tragedy it is. Lucas wasn’t blameless, but he will bear the entire burden of guilt. It just makes me so angry!” She clutched her hair in frustration.

“At least Minerva is spared the knowledge that she loved a murderer.”

“But she knew.” Grell told him of the envelope that she had given her. “I swear the only reason I agreed to keep silent was to shield her from the talk that would follow her for the rest of her existence. The poor woman must have been terrified that he would discover she knew. She deserves some peace.” She fell silent for a moment. “There is more I have to tell you.” Holding nothing back, she related her encounter with the Admiral.

“And Matthews? You met with him. Were you forced–”

She shook her head slightly. “He barely laid a hand on me. His game was to frighten and humiliate before forcing his victims to admit they were not true females.” And she was filled with fresh rage, remembering how he ordered her to expose herself and wondered how many of her kind were forced, in their last moments, to deny their true selves.

“You were so brave,” William marvelled.

“I held on to your words, darling,” she said. “ _You_ called me a true woman. That’s all that matters.”

He pulled her to her feet. “There’s something I’d like to show you. Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“To have an adventure,” he smiled.

XXXXXXXXXX

The gate was no longer there. A few rotting fence posts dotted the perimeter, but, aside from some flattened grass where an errant cow had strayed, the place was abandoned. The grass reached beyond their waists; wildflowers bloomed bravely, forcing their way up through the overgrown garden. A pigeon circled in the sky before swooping down to roost on the crumbling roof of the dovecote.

“Have you ever returned before now?” Grell asked.

“No. I made a point of discovering what happened after I left, but I thought I never wanted to see this place again.”

“It looks as though no one has lived here for decades.”

“No one has,” William replied. “My grandmother died six months after my own death. The property passed to a distant cousin who had no use for the place. He sold it. The new owner rented out the farmland and let the house rot. It was barely habitable during my own life.”

“What would you have done with it if you had survived your grandmother? If it had become yours?”

“I used to dream of demolishing it—razing it to the ground and laughing while it fell. I was usually somewhat the worse for drink during those moments,” he admitted. “I would have ensured that the tenants were secure and that the servants had been looked after properly, but I never intended to return, until today.”

“Why today?” A sudden breeze caught her hair and set it dancing about her.

“Because I promised to say something aloud to you. Here—where we first encountered one another—seems like the right place.” He drew her into his arms and smoothed her hair back from her face.

“I waited here for you, you know. Until my mother and I went home. I’ve been waiting for you for over a century,” she murmured.

“I could see you from my window. I wanted to go to you, but my grandmother had confined me to my room. You’ve been placed in my path from the beginning—in our childhood, at the final exam and since we qualified—you’ve always been there. The Higher Up showed me happiness with you when I was a child and I was too stubborn and blind and frightened to recognize it when it was placed before me here.”

“Stubborn and blind, yes,” she laughed, “but frightened? I don’t understand.”

“There was someone in my human life. He was different and flamboyant. I—I thought I loved him.”

“And he treated you badly?”

“It wasn’t he, exactly, but . . . ” He told her of his brief relationship with Julian Barnes and its aftermath.

“Oh William!” Grell cried. “That wicked old woman! I hope she’s rotting in hell.”

“I used to hope the same, but she must have been very unhappy and bitter all her life. Today, I can hope she’s at peace. But then I encountered you. You’re wild and willful and passionate—all things that meant ruin and death to me. I _couldn’t_ love you and how could you love me? I’m gloomy and dull and utterly ordinary.” 

“But your Nana Spears loved you for whom you really are,” she said softly. “You’re steadfast and loyal. You never stop trying to be a better man. You’ve fought a mighty battle with your own demons these past weeks. That takes extraordinary courage.”

“I haven’t always been successful.”

“Maybe not, but you keep trying. It is written, ‘For this purpose also I labour, striving according to His power, which mightily works within me.’ You prove yourself daily to be a fit servant of the Higher Up when you do so. I’ve often wondered why I was chosen for this existence, but I have never questioned why you were.”

“Perhaps, we were chosen to teach one another—placed in one another’s paths to serve as help meet—to earn our redemption together,” he suggested.

“To share joy and laughter and sorrow,” she said. “And love.” She wound her arms around his neck.

“Yes,” he answered, pressing soft kisses against her brow. “Especially love. Because I love you, Grell.” His lips sought hers, gently coaxing her mouth open to receive his kisses. “You’ll have to teach me; I’ve turned my face away from love for so many years.”

“We’ll teach each other; we’ll learn together. It will be a whole new adventure.”

XXXXXXXXXX

They walked together along the river bank for a while. William shared more about his youth with Grell—growing up unloved and unwanted, but he also related happy memories of time he spent with his Nana Spears. Grell, in turn, described her own childhood.

“I was always considered a little odd. I knew there was something _wrong_ about me from the start. I hadn’t any friends. Children can be very cruel. It was easier to stay away and live in my own little world. Our home was quite plain,” she recalled. “I imagine my father’s stipend was very tiny, but he took me up to the manor house to visit once or twice. I was overwhelmed by the lavishness; I wanted pretty things like I saw there even as a child. Later, in London, I used to dream of the day when I had enough money saved. I would have a charming little house and garden—somewhere peaceful and cosy and pretty.”

“You achieved that,” William said. “Seeing you in your house was one of the things that made me realize how little I knew you. I felt at home as soon as I walked in. I felt like I never wanted to leave.”

“It’s early yet,” she said, taking his arm, “but there is a small spare room in my flat. We could furnish it to your liking. It could be a little study for you. Somewhere you could retreat. I know I can be a bit much at times. If you had a quiet spot of your own in my house, would you consider . . . ” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Consider sharing your home? I’ve never really had a home; not since my father died. My apartment has never been anything more to me than a place to sleep and somewhere I could be alone with my books and music—and drink.”

“Then make a home with me—a place where you know you are loved.”

He gathered her into his arms. “Do you remember the night you spent at my apartment when I promised to put your pleasure first?” As she nodded, he continued, “I would like to give you something else you have never known. You are vastly more experienced than I, but has it ever been an act of love for you?”

Grell shook her head. “No. I’ve had partners I was fond of. One was even a good friend.”

“Undertaker?” he asked warily.

“No, silly,” she laughed softly. “We became close after we reaped together the night of the fires. He’s always given me good advice and I love him dearly and I owe him a tremendous debt for these past few weeks, but I’ve never truly loved anyone one I was with. How could I? There’s never been room in my heart for anyone but you. Not since the day we fought on the rooftops in London.”

“Then will you allow me to be the first to make love to you?”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell’s bedroom was as charming and feminine as the rest of her house. Painted white, the walls were hung with antique-framed watercolours of flowers in palest pink and deep rose. Her open window was framed with dainty lace curtains that fluttered in the breeze and matched the skirt of her white and gold dressing table, cluttered with cosmetics, brushes, crystal scent bottles and a swansdown powder puff. Although several silk and lace wrappers and nightgowns were flung carelessly across a deeply-tufted rose slipper chair, her work shirts and trousers were hung neatly in an open wardrobe alongside her dresses and two or three waistcoats. William noticed spare arm garters, striped neck ribbons and an extra spectacle cord resting on top of her bureau and a jar of potpourri.

But his gaze was fixed on Grell, stretched out naked on her bed. He had tenderly removed her clothes, covering every inch of flesh with slow kisses as he peeled her garments away, whispering words of devotion and praise until she was consumed with giggles.

“My arms are as graceful as the branches of a tree? My skin is as soft as the feathers of a pigeon?” She laughed harder. “Are my eyes as green as a swampy pool? Is my hair the colour of a rusted plough?”

“I’m not very poetically inclined,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

“I shouldn’t laugh at you, darling,” she said, “but when you compared my nipples to raspberries, floating in a sea of cream, I couldn’t help myself.”

“But you’re beautiful. I just wish I had the words to describe you. You’re all pink and white. You are a perfect rose.”

She shivered slightly. “Don’t call me that, please.”

He saw the shadows in her eyes and knew that she would carry the scars of the experiences of the past weeks always.

“I’m not ashamed of what I did,” she insisted, “but being at the mercy of those men, even knowing I could kill any of them in an instant, was unsettling.”

And living again in the circumstances where she had taken her life must have been disturbing. No wonder she had gloried in her newfound strength and invulnerability when she came to this existence. No wonder she had taken such savage glee in the spilling of blood after a lifetime spent in the shadow of the noose, subject to the whims and dark desires of others.

“Then let me love you and treat you as you deserve,” he murmured, “and know that _I_ am utterly at your mercy—caught in your red hair like–”

“A fly in a spider’s web?” she giggled. “A fish in a net? A fox in a snare?”

He silenced her with his lips, tracing the outline of her mouth with his tongue and gently probing the silken warmth of her mouth. She wrapped her legs around him and drew him closer while her nails scratched delicate patterns across his back. He could feel her arousal, slightly slick against his belly, sometimes brushing against his own and moved down the bed.

His tongue reached out uncertainly to lick at her length and he hesitantly took her into his mouth. Her soft gasp sounded in his ears, giving him the confidence to go on. With extreme care, he took in as much as he could while he stroked the heavy sack below. She was straining towards him, matching the rhythm he set, urging him on with small moans and sighs. His few encounters in the past had been brief and furtive and fumbling, snatched in hidden corners and finished as quickly as possible.

Grell’s passion for him was a revelation. To see her sprawled out before him, her glorious hair streaming across her white sheets, her translucent skin flushing rosy pink. To hear her soft cries of passion and feel the velvet of her skin and cool silk of her hair caressing him. To inhale her intoxicating fragrance and to taste her. She was salt and sweet. She scorched him like fiery brandy and soothed him like a draught of cool water.

He tentatively brushed his finger against her puckered opening and heard her catch her breath. Lifting his head, he watched her face while he deliberately stroked the sensitive patch of skin and teased her entrance with his fingertip. Her head was thrown back and her mouth, half-open was quivering.

“Would you like to go on?” she asked.

“Would you like me to? I haven’t much experience in this and I don’t want to hurt you in any way.”

She turned a deep pink and fumbled in a drawer of her night stand to hand him a small bottle. “Just use plenty of this and you won’t hurt me,” she said, laughing softly while he fetched a towel and spread it fussily beneath her hips.

William felt ridiculously awkward and unpractised, but Grell was smiling at him, her eyes shining with love—and trust. By rights, he thought, that smile—those shark-like teeth—should be terrifying, but, like everything else about her, it was hers alone. And that made it beautiful to him. The fierce passion for everything that burned in her illuminated her throughout and warmed his own cold and lonely heart.

He coated two fingers thickly with the oil she had given him and gently pressed one in, watching her face all the while. She showed no discomfort as he began to move it inside her and thrust her hips upwards. He could feel her blossom inwardly and carefully pushed in a second finger. Her breath caught for a second, but she accepted him without any visible distress. With the greatest care possible, he coaxed her to relax and open herself to him, anxiously searching her face as he prodded further.

Suddenly, she cried out. “Oh! Just like that! Do that again!”

William’s fingers brushed against her centre and she groaned again. Pearl-like drops spilled from her and her hands clawed helplessly at the sheets. She was gasping and shamelessly pushing herself against him until she suddenly quieted.

“Fill me, darling,” she begged. “Take your own pleasure and hold me while you do.”

He was trembling while he anointed himself, fearful of hurting her, afraid of becoming selfish in his passion and forgetting her joy in search of his own. But she urged him on impatiently, drawing up her legs and offering herself to him completely.

Gritting his teeth to maintain control, he sank slowly into her. Her velvet heat enclosed him entirely, sending fiery tendrils of bliss through his whole body. He was shaking with need, but caught her up against him—to hold her close to his heart and cherish her, to wrap his hand around her and ensure that she shared the rapture she was giving him. Her arms were locked around his neck as she rose and fell with him. His ears were filled with her soft cries and moans and his head reeled. He was ravished by her, consumed with pleasure. She occupied all of his senses—the silken brush of her hair, the dew of her sweat, the taste of her lips. Her nails were digging into his back and his lips were slightly grazed from her teeth adding a slight edge of pain, which excited him unbearably.

Her movements were slower now as she arched her back and bore down onto him, folding the ecstasy into herself until she went still, cried out and he felt his hand and belly grow wet when she spilled forth. Holding her closer, his loving became deeper and fiercer. The passion bloomed and grew deep inside of him, dark heat pooled in his loins and he was poised at the brink.

“I love you,” he muttered hoarsely. “I will until the end of our time here—and beyond.”

She tightened her hold around his neck. “Always,” she whispered.

He drove forth a final time and surrendered to her, gave himself up to the redheaded enchantress who had beckoned and tormented and beguiled him for almost a century. William lowered her gently to the bed and eased away carefully once his breathing and heartbeat had subsided and smoothed away the sweat-damp tendrils of hair from her brow.

“What do you think happens when we’ve earned our redemption?” she asked. “What do you think will happen when we’re called from this existence?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, winding a lock of her hair around his fingers. “All I ever hoped for was oblivion. What do you think?”

“A place of perfect joy and peace, I think. Where we become our best selves.”

William caught her close and peered down into her radiant face. “Then we’re already there.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“Are you sure?” Grell asked anxiously while they climbed the stairs to their office in the Dispatch. “I don’t mind. Really.”

“Grell, we talked about this yesterday,” William replied. “Everyone is going to gossip and stare at us, no matter how discreet we attempt to be.” He smiled down at her. “I thought I was supposed to be the one insisting on no demonstrations of affection at work.” With that he tucked her hand around his arm and they strode into the office.

The loud buzz of conversation that could be heard through the door ceased as soon as they entered. Finally, one of the clerks spoke up. “Good morning, sir. It’s good to see you back.”

William nodded and adjusted his glasses. “We are _both_ ,” he said, covering Grell’s hand with his own, “very glad to be back.”

“Gracious!” she exclaimed with a loud burst of laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day when you lot were all speechless.”

The newly-appointed Branch Manager Edwardes appeared. “Spears. Agent Sutcliff. Welcome back. I’m afraid the paperwork has rather piled up in your absence. You’ll both be at your desks today, but you will return to the field tomorrow,” he said to Grell, “after the funeral for Director Matthews. You _will_ attend, won’t you?” He fixed her with a steely glare.

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “I wouldn’t miss his funeral for the world. But what a pity I’m stuck at my desk today. I had been hoping for a real workout. Maybe later, darling,” she whispered in William’s ear before disappearing into her own office.

William repressed a smile and walked into his office, startled at the sight of a black-clad figure seated before his desk.

“Welcome back,” Undertaker chortled. “I was in the Library and thought I’d stop by to give you this.”

“Er, thank you,” he replied uncertainly, taking a small, flat package from him. He fumbled in his desk for a letter opener to cut the string and tore the paper off warily. Considering the donor, it could be anything.

It was an antique watercolour of a scarlet bird of paradise, framed to match the pigeon Grell had given him last Christmas.

“I was with Grell when she spotted the pigeon at a stall in London last year. She was so excited to find it and so hurt when you wouldn’t accept it immediately.” He held up his hand to forestall William’s interruption. “I _don’t_ want to hear your excuses,” he hissed. “You have been given a very rare gift. See that you cherish her and deserve it. I’ll be keeping an eye on you both,” he said with a menacing grin and vanished.

He shivered involuntarily; Undertaker’s enmity was not a prospect he would relish, but the old silver-haired reaper could rest easily on Grell’s account. Even he didn’t know of the ties that bound him and Grell since childhood and beyond. He ran his fingertip across the painting and smiled. It was fitting—Grell was a vivid bird of paradise to his plain grey pigeon, placed in his path by the Higher Up to lead him on the greatest adventure of all.


End file.
